Stacking Bones
by Glass Shoe
Summary: Sam never gave up on Dean, but he didn't save him either.
1. Prologue

Title: Stacking Bones

Category: Gen, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, AU after 3.16

Spoilers: Up to and including 3.16

Summary: Sam never gave up on Dean, but he didn't save him either.

Rating: T

Warnings: Language. Oh, the language. Because you know this is how they'd talk if they had their own movie. Also, Dean-centric

Disclaimers: I don't own the Winchesters. If I did, I'd never leave the house. I'm not making a dime. This story was written for entertainment only, mostly my own.

Notes: As usual this fic comes to you unbetaed. All mistakes are my own. Please forgive me for being human. All the same, if you do notice a huge, glaring error, please don't be shy about mentioning it.

_Prologue:_

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

The road out of Hell is paved with gravel and dirt and huge rocks that rise up out of nowhere and punish the shit out of a car's shocks.

That's how it seems anyway.

Dean closes his eyes in Hell and opens them in the back seat of a 1971 Chevelle, rocking back and forth with the motion of the car, sick to his stomach, sick down to the soles of his feet and weak as a day-old kitten. There's dirt in his clothes, sand in his eyes and fire in his muscles. There's also the sharp, familiar smell of gasoline and engine grease in his nose. It's the kind of smell you only find in a garage or in an old car that's been salvaged from a junkyard and brought back to life, or kept running past its time. It's warm and familiar, like apple pie and hot coffee. When Dean smells that smell, that's when he knows that he's saved.

Maybe he makes some kind of noise. Maybe he grunts or groans or farts because the driver turns around in his seat, suddenly more focused on his passenger than on the road in front of him.

The driver says something, just one word. Maybe it's his name. Everything's a hazy, confused jumble of sights and sounds and smells. It's all-out assault on his senses and Dean's absurdly grateful when the car stops.

There's a creak of leather or pleather and a big hand in Dean's hair, thumb stroking his forehead. Then there's a big, deep, familiar voice talking to him in a language that he used to know, but the words might as well be Greek or Cantonese or Yiddish for all the sense Dean can make out of them. So he lets the sound wash over him, a familiar tide, rising and falling, carrying him home.

Everything hurts.

_Everything. _

The touch on Dean's forehead is too rough, sandpaper over frostbitten skin. The voice is too loud, and he can't move away. Dean blinks back tears. He stares straight ahead, past the driver, past the seat backs and the dashboard, out the dusty windshield and into the sky. It's so big and so blue and so real that it freezes him, every muscle. He is afraid that if he so much as twitches, it will disappear.

The flow of words eventually stops. The hand goes away, along with the driver. After a long moment, the car starts moving again, bumping and weaving along this backwater dirt road. On either side of the road the trees slide in and out of sight, one after the other. The sky stays put, a permanent, cloudless field.

_Could look at that all day long_, he thinks, right before he closes his eyes.

Then there is a long, dark stretch of time during which he doesn't dream.

tbc…


	2. Part 1

_Part 1_

When Dean wakes up the car has stopped moving and he's alone.

It's darker now, and not just because of the tree branches that crowd the windshield. The sky is more purple than blue. The air is still and quiet and very, very cold.

He's curled up in the same cramped position he was in when he went to sleep except that now there's something covering his torso, an old plaid coat with a quilted lining, pulled right up under his chin like a blanket. In spite of that he's so cold that he aches. Dean can see his breath in the stagnant air but he can't move. He can't even shiver. It's like his body doesn't remember how.

Dean doesn't know how long he lies there, maybe minutes, maybe hours. Time is too abstract a concept for him to wrap his tired mind around.

The back door of the car opens, and the sudden noise is like an explosion. Dean flinches.

There's a man towering above him, the driver. Dean can only see his blue-jeaned legs and the hem of a red and white flannel shirt.

"Shit," the driver swears. He kneels down to Dean's height, starts rubbing Dean's back shoulders. "Meant to come back sooner. Chimney's cold. Took longer than I thought to get a fire started. Jeez…your lips are blue…"

The driver's touch awakens something, some long forgotten instinct of self-preservation, and Dean starts shaking uncontrollably.

"That's it. That's the ticket. You're not dead." The driver's voice catches. "You're not dead," like he's saying it as much for himself as he is for Dean. Like he needs the reassurance. Dean kind of needs the reassurance too.

Through chattering teeth Dean tries to speak, but it comes out quiet and broken, like he's spoken before in his life. The driver leans his ear closer to Dean's mouth. "What?"

"Sam," Dean says again.

The driver looks at him for a moment. His rough hands freeze where they are.

"I'm sorry, boy. " He opens his mouth like he's going to say something else, but closes it again with a shake of his head. He adjusts the weathered cap on his head, shielding his eyes. "Let's get you inside."

Bobby. Bobby is the driver. The name swims up from some darkened corner of Dean's memory. It's like lighting a candle in a room full of dusty old relics, things that he thought he'd lost forever. Then Bobby's rough hands are under Dean's arms, pulling him out of the back seat. The coat slips off of his shoulders and onto the floor. Dean hadn't realized how much it really was protecting him from the cold until it was gone. The chill soaks right through him, down to his bones.

"Can you-?" Bobby starts to ask, but whatever it is, it's clear that Dean can't. As it turns out, the old hunter is a lot stronger than Dean ever realized. When Dean's legs refuse to take his weight, Bobby scoops an arm under his knees and lifts him like a child. Dean's left arm falls across his chest, his right arm is a useless hunk of meat and bone, a dead weight swinging from his shoulder.

There are trees all around them, dark and sinister in the fading light. In the midst of this wilderness there stands a single, modest wooden structure, an old cabin.

Bobby carries Dean several meters up a leaf-covered gravel path, then up a set of creaky wooden stairs and through the cabin's open doorway. In that short time it's all Dean can do to keep his head from lolling backward, right off Bobby's flannel shoulder and into open space. This close, Bobby smells like sweat and gunpowder and engine grease. He smells like every man that Dean's ever looked up to.

The only light inside the cabin comes from a roaring fire. The air is dusty, smoky and stale, but warmer, marginally warmer than the pine-scented stuff outside.

Bobby's knees crack when he lays Dean down on a braided rug near the fireplace. Dean watches with detachment as the older man prods the fire with a wrought iron poker, sending glowing embers into the air. Dean's eyes follow them until they wink out in the darkness.

Bobby crouches in front of him, talks to him in a low, soothing voice. Dean tries to make sense out of what he's saying but the words keep sliding away from him like greased rope, just going faster and faster the harder he tries to hang on.

The heat from the fire feels unbelievably good, and Dean loses himself in the flames. When he comes back, there's a blanket on top of him and the side of him that's closest to the fire is almost painfully hot. It feels wonderful.

The orange glow throws long black shapes on the walls and the floor. Dean can't see or hear much, but he knows he's not alone. He can feel Bobby moving around just outside of his peripheral vision, can hear the rustle of paper bags and plastic sacks, the clunking wood-on-wood sound of furniture being moved. There's a creak and a sigh, the sound of an old man easing himself into an old chair.

The steady _scrape, scrape, scrape_ of Bobby sharpening his Natchez Bowie is like a lullaby, and it leads Dean into the dark.

XXXXX

"Sam."

"Sam."

Dean comes awake to the word, spoken over and over again. Only when he's fully awake does he realize that it's his own voice calling for Sam, and that Sam's not coming.

The windows are thrown open and the room is filled with bright, cold light. Dean can pick out details of this place that he couldn't by the soft glow of the fire. The cabin is small: one room only with a kitchenette in one corner, one door besides the one he came in through. Could be a bathroom or a closet. The walls are made of natural wood, no plaster or paint, and Dean can see the dusty crossbeams holding the roof up. The floor is the same dark wood, sanded smooth, varnished once upon a time, but worn now and covered in dust except for where the tread of Bobby's boots has disturbed it. There are leaves and cobwebs in the corners. From above the fireplace the mounted head of an elk looks down at him with soulless glass eyes.

The room smells like cooked meat, but whatever meal was prepared in the tiny kitchenette has already been eaten. The smell fails to arouse any kind of response in Dean beyond recognition. He doesn't remember his last meal.

There are slow, heavy footsteps coming up the front steps. Dean feels them as a vibration in the floor. The front door squeaks on its hinges when Bobby shoulders it open, arms full of firewood.

"Hey," the older man says with a note of relief, "You're awake."

Dean shivers. The motion awakens every small ache in his body and makes him aware of a damp patch underneath him and an earthy smell that he hadn't noticed before, but which is suddenly overwhelming.

Dean makes a noise in his throat, a sound like a distressed animal, his cheeks burning with shame.

Bobby keeps his eyes on Dean as he sets down his load and dusts the splinters off of his sleeves. Without pulling back the blanket he seems to already know what's happened.

"Oh…it's okay. Don't worry about that, son," Bobby tells him. "I shoulda thought about that sooner I guess. But it's fine. I've got some clothes for you in the trunk."

Bobby looks at him then, like he's waiting for something. Dean sees the hope shift to disappointment when Bobby realizes that whatever he's waiting for isn't coming.

"C'mon, son, let's get you cleaned up."

Turns out the second door leads to a bathroom. It's small, which seems to be a running theme for this place. There is a sink, with two knobs and a faucet trailing orange rust stains into the white ceramic basin, a toilet without a lid, and a combination shower and bathtub. One of the knobs is missing. Bobby has to use a wrench to turn on the flow. Pipes rattle in the walls, and when the water first sputters out of the tap it's thick with rust.

Bobby lets it run for a while, tries to hide the silver flask behind the flap of his jacket and the pretense of testing the temperature of the water. Dean sees him empty the flask's contents into the bath anyway, and can't find it in himself to panic like he knows he should, because that's not whiskey he's got there.

Bobby helps Dean undress, meaning that he does almost all of the work. It's uncomfortable and it takes a painfully long time. Dean can't raise his arms. He's wearing nothing but a t-shirt and boxer shorts, and the shorts are soaked through. They stick to his legs and they smell. Thank God it's only piss. He sees Bobby grimace, but the older man soldiers on, draping the blanket over Dean's lap to save him some shred of dignity while he peals the sopping cotton away from Dean's skin. By the time Bobby manages to get him into the bathtub there are tears running down Dean's cheeks.

"Too hot?" Bobby asks, wary.

Dean finds out that there's more than one word in his vocabulary.

"No," he says. It's easier than shaking his head.

Bobby makes sure that Dean can keep his head out of the water before he leaves to get another fire started and retrieve some fresh clothes. Once he's gone Dean lets the tears come, not tears of pain or humiliation, but tears of gratitude. He hasn't been able to cry for a very long time.

Under the murky water there are deep scars on his legs, chest and arms. Dean hadn't even realized how badly they'd been pulling on the skin around them until they start to soften in the heat. He doesn't try to remember how he got them, but he remembers anyway.

Oh, God, he remembers anyway…

Dean sucks up his tears before Bobby comes back with a small stack of clothes: just underwear and a t-shirt. Anything more would be reaching. When he finds that Dean hasn't drowned yet he gives him a cursory once-over with a soapy washcloth and then sets him on the edge of the tub and uses an old blanket to dry him off. Dean can't do anything but endure it.

He must have made some kind of unhappy sound or given Bobby a dirty look because at one point in the middle of drying his hair, Bobby pulls back, looks him square in the eye and points an accusing finger at Dean's nose, "I'm tryin' to help you, boy. You can't do it for yourself right now so don't you give me any grief. I'm not gonna let you sit around in your own filth, stinkin' up my cabin. Put a sock in it."

It's the longest, angriest stretch of words Dean's heard out of the man yet, and it awakens something inside of him. Before he's aware that he's done anything, Dean's right hand worms out from under the blanket, headed for Bobby's jaw. It stalls on its way there, lands on the older man's shoulder, flops back down and smacks against the side of the tub.

Bobby looks shocked for a second, and then his face splits open in a wide grin. He wraps one of his big, callused hands around the side of Dean's neck. "Knew you were still in there." Bobby gives him a brisk shake, like he's congratulating him. Dean feels his body rock back and forth, head wobbling on his neck like a ball on a rubber stick.

Dean feels one corner of his mouth twitch in response.

"I thought-" Bobby cuts himself off, shaking his head, but his smile doesn't completely go away. "Doesn't matter. Let's get you dressed."

Bobby has a white cotton t-shirt and a set of boxer shorts for him. Brand new. The clothes still smell like the plastic wrappers that they came in.

Bobby lays the boxers out on the floor, puts Dean's feet into them one at a time and slides them up Dean's legs past his knees as high as they will go. He has to stand Dean up to pull the boxers on the rest of the way. The shirt is the easiest part of the transaction, but Dean's arms are still rubbery and they weigh a thousand pounds. He tries to lift them but only makes things harder for Bobby in the long run. Bobby doesn't seem to mind.

Bobby carries Dean the short distance to the main room. Bobby doesn't seem to like the arrangement any more than Dean does, but there's no way around it.

The smell lingers but the soiled rug is gone, replaced by an old army cot that's seen better years. Its brother is in the corner of the room with a rolled sleeping bag on top: a place for Bobby to sleep, Dean realizes. Dean is too pathetically grateful for the heat from the fire to mind that he's taking the best bed in the house. He's shivering, teeth chattering.

"I'm too old for this shit," Bobby tells the room, arching his back. "We should try to get some fluids in you. You got a favorite flavor of Gatorade?"

Whatever Dean's favorite flavor might have been, all Bobby has is beer or water, and Bobby's not about to waste beer on a man who can't hold his own head up, so water is what he gets.

Bobby hauls Dean into a sitting position and holds him against his chest. Dean can feel Bobby's heart beat through all the layers of cotton and flannel, slow and steady and reassuring.

"Don't exactly know how we're gonna do this…" Bobby admits, unscrewing the cap from the plastic bottle.

Bobby tips the bottle toward Dean's lips, and Dean nearly drowns in a capful of water. Seems like he's out of practice at swallowing. Two or three more tries and he's not any closer to getting the hang of it. By then Bobby's starting to look worried. He raises the bottle one more time and Dean finds the energy to turn his head away.

"Okay," Bobby says. He re-caps the water and lowers Dean onto the cot, where Dean coughs miserably. "Maybe we'll try again later."

Bobby takes his cap off and runs his fingers nervously through his hair. He's looking down at Dean like he's a puzzle that Bobby can't solve…or like he's a broken down car that Bobby can't fix.

"You just rest for a while."

Like there's another option. At Bobby's suggestion Dean feels his body sinking, like it's trying to drag him down into the floor.

Dean doesn't want to be tired. He doesn't want to sleep anymore. He feels like he's been asleep for a hundred years or like maybe he's never been awake in his entire life.

Bobby puts the water away with the rest of the supplies in the tiny kitchenette, moves slowly around the room like he's not sure what to do with himself next. Dean can hear his footsteps, pacing. He can't turn his head to look.

"B'by."

Bobby doesn't stop. The old fart is losing his hearing.

"Bobby," Dean tries again, embarrassed that his voice is so weak but at the same time amazed that he got the word past his lips at all.

Bobby pulls up short. He comes to kneel by Dean's head, puts his ear close to Dean's mouth.

"How long…?"

Close up, there are more white whiskers in Bobby's beard than red. The lines on his face are deep grooves.

Two words are all that Dean has the strength for. When that becomes clear to Bobby, the older man sits back on his haunches. When Dean hears Bobby's joints crack, the sound is louder than Dean's question.

"A year," Bobby says it flat, no sugar coating. "A year and some change. Sam could tell you how much, probably down to the minute."

"Sam…where's Sam?"

"Sam's not here," Bobby tells him. And there's no apology under those words. It is how it is. "He can take care of himself. Worry about yourself for once in your damn life."

The older man gets up and crosses to the small kitchenette. Dean hears the sound of glass bottles clinking together and a hiss of pressurized air escaping. Bobby tosses his the bottle cap into the fireplace, where the flames turn it black.

"I'd offer you one, but I don't think that's the best idea right now."

Bobby tips the bottle up and swallows. Dean's throat feels so dry. He remembers the taste of beer, can almost feel it in his throat.

Bobby runs a hand nervously down his beard. Dean's eyes follow every movement. Bobby reads the question in them. He says, "Sam's coming. He's just not coming right away."

Bobby takes a long drink out of his bottle, drains it by half. When he comes up for air he says, "Sorry, kid, but that's all I got for you."

Dean looks up at Bobby, who's frowning at the fire like it's done something to piss him off.

Dean has to wait for a while before Bobby looks at him again, but when he does, Dean tells him, "Thank you."

tbc...

Thank you for reading. Feedback is welcome.


	3. Part 2

Fic: Stacking Bones

2/5

Gen, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, AU after 3.16

At night Dean dreams, and in his dreams the Hellhounds come for him, great black beasts with three snapping heads made of exposed muscle and bone. Their jaws are dripping with blood and bits of gore. Their yellow teeth tear open his skin like it's sausage casing and they swallow his soul.

Dean wakes up in pitch-blackness, soaked with sweat and breathing hard. One of his hands creeps under his shirt, across the deep scars in his chest, and finds a smaller, thinner line of raised flesh. This one is straight and deliberate, carved in one single vertical stroke, like a slash from a knife, and it neatly bisects the pentagram tattooed over his heart.

The nightmare images fade from his mind, replaced by the warm smells and of the cabin and the soft sounds of Bobby's snoring and the wind in the trees outside.

Dean lies awake the rest of the night, and by morning he's running a fever.

"Don' feel s'good, Bobby."

"I can see that, kid. At least your vocabulary's improving."

Dean's limbs are starting to obey him, too. He's managed to curl himself up on his side, knees tucked up, arms folded across his chest, and he's watching Bobby rip open plastic pouches from a first-aid kit the size and shape of a tackle-box. It's something that a paramedic might carry, and probably did at one point, but outside of the props, Bobby's got nothing in common with any medical professional Dean's ever seen.

"Gonna need your arm, Dean."

It's like moving underwater, but Dean unfolds his right arm and lays it out for Bobby, palm up. It leaves behind a cold patch of skin on Dean's chest.

"That's it," soothing.

Bobby ties a strip of stretchy plastic around Dean's forearm, starts prodding with thick fingers around Dean's wrist. There's a _pull-snap_ sound as Bobby puts on sky-blue latex gloves.

"This ain't exactly a sterile environment, but beggars can't be choosers."

Dean's spent too much time in the ER not to know what's happening. "Don' like needles, Bobby," he confesses.

"Never met anybody who did. Hold still."

Before Dean even realizes what's happening Bobby has swabbed the injection site and inserted a needle. He removes the tourniquet with a snapping sound. Dean feels the injection as a bone-deep ache that travels all the way up his arm and across his chest.

Dean's eyes find the ceiling while he tries to ignore the tiny tugs and pricks while Bobby tapes the tubing in place and attaches the IV bag.

Bobby empties a small syringe into the injection port in the IV tubing.

"Antibiotics," Bobby explains, sliding the used syringe into a sharps tube. "For the fever. Not gonna risk you choking to death on pills."

Bobby tapes the IV in place, re-checks the tubing, and for a second Dean sees his father in the man leaning over him.

"Bobby," Dean begins. He has to pause to lick his lips. "Hurts."

Bobby glances at the bag. "Just saline, kid."

Dean swallows his complaints. He doesn't have the breath to voice them anyway.

There's a stretch of silence, the kind that happens when one person can't speak and the other is used to spending most of his free time alone.

"You want me to tell you a story or somethin'?"

Dean makes a sound halfway between a groan and a laugh. "God, no."

Dean couldn't have been any more than six years old when he met Bobby. He doesn't remember what monster gave Dad the concussion, or maybe he never knew in the first place. All he remembers is sitting on Bobby's sofa, legs too short to reach the ground, baby Sammy squalling in his little arms. Bobby had come out of the back room, cleaning Dad's blood off his hands and looked at the boys like they were aliens. After Bobby recovered from the initial shock of having children in his house for the first time ever he made up the couch for them with some old pillows and quilts. It was past midnight and Sammy had cried himself into two-year-old sleep coma but Dean just stared quietly at the ceiling. Bobby asked if there was anything he could get for Dean, to help him get to sleep. After some hesitation, Dean asked if Bobby could tell him a story. It was the first time he'd wanted one since Mom died. Except that the only fairytales Bobby knew were of the early European folklore variety rather than the watered down Disney adaptations and not exactly age-appropriate for a six-year-old.

"Pied Piper."

It takes a second for Bobby to catch on. "Crap. Can't believe you remember that."

Dean wants to say more, but all of his snappy comebacks are buried inside of his broken body, so he just smiles, and as the warm old memory fades his smile becomes a grimace.

"Hurts," Dean says again, like the thought is new and just occurred to him.

Bobby lowers his head to examine the injection site. "I've seen you complain less about a gunshot wound."

"Not complainin'," Dean says, has to take a huge pause for breath before he continues, "Just sayin…"

Bobby sits up straight, shaking his head, corners of his mouth turned down. "No lumps, no bleeding, no bruising. It's all in your head, kid," he says. Then he lays the IV bag on Dean's stomach. "Hold tight for a second. Gonna scoot you closer to the wall."

The cot's wooden frame bends and creaks in protest when Bobby drags it across the floor. Dean thinks it might break before Bobby maneuvers it flush with the wall next to the fireplace. It's colder there, but only on the outside of Dean's body. Feels like everything inside him is burning.

Bobby leaves him for a minute, and while he's gone Dean finds the energy to scratch at his arm, like he can dig the needle out, but Bobby comes back before Dean can do any damage. Bobby brought a rusty old hammer with him, bleached wood for a handle, and he uses it to drive a nail into the wall a few feet above Dean's head.

There's a cross-shaped split in the plastic near the top of the bag, made for hanging the bag on an IV pole. In this case a nail through the wall works just as well.

Dean's eyes follow the length of tubing from the injection site on the back of his hand to the hanging bag of clear liquid, still swaying a little where it hangs. He doesn't see a fragile strip of plastic. He sees a chain, red with rust. Instead of a piece of clear tape and a bright green cap he sees a hook piercing the meaty part of his hand.

He tastes blood.

He takes a deep breath.

"_SAM!_" the scream burns in his throat. "_Help me! Please!_"

Over the pounding of his heart Dean can hear a man swearing, shouting his name over and over again. There's a callused hand on his face, squeezing the sides of his jaw, and one wrapped around his right arm, an iron vise.

"Hey! Hey! Stop it!"

Dean gulps air, chest heaving like he's just surfaced after being underwater for too long. Bobby's face is inches from his, angry and shocked.

Bobby doesn't let go of him, doesn't ease up even a little until Dean is perfectly still and breathing evenly. Bobby's hands will leave bruises and half-moon fingernail marks where they dug into Dean's skin.

"Sam!" Dean hears himself say, panicked. It's his knee-jerk reaction to everything, the word that's always on the tip of his tongue and has been since he was four years old and "Mom" wasn't an option anymore. "Sam…" he repeats only softer, with less hope. He's begging.

"That's it, calm down" Bobby says, calm and certain, a rock. His hand slides away from Dean's face, pats his shoulder reassuringly. "You with me now?"

Dean focuses on Bobby and nods slightly, blood pounding in his ears. He breathes deep, forcing himself to take in the sights and smells of his surroundings: the aroma of burning wood, the sweat smell coming off of Bobby, the tiny wrinkles in his own hands. He's trying to convince his subconscious that this is real, that Bobby and the cabin and the fucking IV aren't going to disappear in a breath of smoke and flame.

"Never knew you had such a big problem with needles."

"Bobby. Get it out." Dean tells him. His free hand finds the injection site and starts to peel back the tape.

"Don't do that, kiddo." Bobby says, and he pries his hand away like Dean is two years old. "It's just the fever talking."

The older man looks down. Dean sees him checking the injection site, following the tubing up to the hanging bag.

Dean sucks in a breath, tries to force his heart to slow down and grips the cot to keep from pulling the IV out. It's then that Dean realizes Bobby's not just fiddling around with the IV tubing. He's got another little syringe. Bobby's fingering the injection port and Dean knows that's not B12 he's got there.

Dean makes a grab for Bobby's wrist and Bobby brushes him off like he's two years old. "Sorry, kiddo. Can't have you tearing the line out."

"Bobby, don't," Dean says breathlessly. "Nonononono. Don't."

Bobby's hand drops a little, but he's still got the syringe at the ready. He says evenly, reasonably, "It's what you need."

Mind made up, Bobby inserts the needle into the port and presses the plunger.

"I'm sorry," is the last thing that Dean hears before the black dog opens its dripping jaws wide and swallows him whole.

XXXXX

_Tap tap tap, _A soft clicking noise fills the cabin.

"S'infected, Bobby," Dean mumbles.

"It's not infected."

"Burns, Bobby."

"Don't touch the needle, kid. You pull it out, I'll put it right back in."

_Tap tap scratch_

"Burns..."

"Nothin's burning you, kid. It's just your imagination."

"Thirsty…"

"I know, kid."

_Tic tic tap_

"Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

"Where's Sam?"

"He's not here."

Dean grimaces. "It hurts, Bobby."

"Okay, kid."

"Really hurts Bobby."

"Uh huh."

"Means it's working, right?"

"Huh?" Bobby looks up at him from where he's crouched on the floor, shoulder working like he's scrubbing at a stain. _Tap tap tap. _Or like he's drawing…

"S'what Dad would say. Hurts. Mean's it's working. Must be okay…heart's still beating."

"Yeah. Okay. Somethin' like that."

Bobby's head drops out of sight and the _tap tap tap_ noise resumes. A few moments pass, filled with nothing but that sound, the crackling sound of wood in the fireplace and Dean's strained breathing.

"Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

"I was dead."

"You were dead," Bobby agrees, standing up, dusting off his knees.

"Something's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong. Stop talkin' and go back to sleep."

Dean bites his lip.

There's a piece of chalk in Bobby's right hand and a worn old leather-bound book in his left. The edges of the pages are gilded and there's a red satin bookmark trapped between them, a soldier at the ready.

There chalk lines on the floor, all the way around Dean's cot.

"Am I awake?" Dean asks.

"You're awake."

Bobby notices where Dean is looking.

"I didn't come back right, did I?" Dean gives him a weak half-smile. "S'okay. You can tell me."

There's a long, dangerous pause.

"Dean," Bobby says, harsh. "Quit your whining and go to sleep."

Dean's eyes drop again to the book in Bobby's hand. He knows what's on the marked page. He never could make himself memorize the words. Latin and all of that other geeky shit was Sam's territory. Now the words float up out of nowhere: Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas…

Dean doesn't realize he's saying the words out loud until Bobby says, "Okay, kid. That's enough of that."

Then Bobby reaches over and starts to do something to the IV, but Dean catches his wrist, holds on with strength he didn't know he had.

"No," Dean says. There's a syringe in Bobby's hand, the free one, and not a damn thing that Dean can physically do to stop him. "The dogs."

"Dogs…" Bobby repeats slowly.

"Hounds." And Dean can't do any better than that.

He's going to do it anyway. That's what Dean thinks until Bobby sets the syringe down and wags his finger at him. "Shut up. Stay still."

Dean nods.

Bobby reads. Latin falls from his lips and the wind kicks up like a tornado has torn the roof off of the cabin. The flames in the fireplace flicker and nearly die, pitching the cabin and Bobby into near-blackness.

Dean discovers that his lips are moving, following along with the Latin passages he half-remembers from the days Dad tried to pound them into him and Sammy. Dad had more luck getting Sammy to remember things like that. Sammy, who never wanted to be a Hunter, Sammy, who tried half as hard as Dean and always did twice as well. Had Dean been jealous? Fuck yeah, but Dean was more proud than jealous, and more scared than proud, because someday Sammy wasn't going to need him or Dad anymore. He was going to leave and Dean was never going to see his brother again.

When the wind dies down and the fire starts to burn brighter he looks over and sees the syringe gone and familiar warmth spreading through his veins.

"Sonofabitch," Dean drawls.

The lights go out. Dean falls into pitch-blackness. For the first time in a long time he can't hear the dogs, but that doesn't mean they aren't there.

XXXXX

"Asshole." That's the first word out of Dean's mouth once he's sure he's awake, before he's even opened his eyes, before he's even sure that Bobby's in the room.

"Glad to see you're awake." Bobby sounds amused by the insult. He doesn't even look up. "Feelin' better?"

Dean's t-shirt is glued to his chest with sweat. He doesn't feel feverish. He can't see the book anywhere. The chalk lines on the floorboards are gone and the wood is spotless, wiped clean.

"I thought-"

"You thought?"

"Never mind. Gotta piss," Dean says. Sounds sulky even to him.

Bobby gets up, puts his magazine down on the chair behind him and makes his way to Dean.

"That's a good sign. Means your fluid levels are up."

Dean groans.

The IV is still in his hand, but the hanging bag on the wall is labeled as glucose, not saline. Bobby must have changed it while he slept. The plastic needle itches under his skin.

Bobby takes the bag down and puts an arm under Dean's back to lever him up.

"I think I can…"

Bobby's arm retracts. Dean pushes himself up through a haze of black dots, puts his feet on the dirty cabin floor one at a time. Then he has to sit for a moment with his head between his knees, fighting the urge to pass out. No way he's making it to his feet on his own, and the bathroom might as well be on the other side of the Rockies.

Dean feels something being pressed into his left hand. It's his IV bag. Dean curls his fingers around it, making a basket, and gratefully loops his right arm over Bobby's shoulders.

"One, two…" and on three they're up, staggering like tequila-soaked _Americanos_ on a weekend bender in Tijuana.

Once they reach the bathroom and Dean's staring down into that rust-stained porcelain maw that Bobby calls a toilet, the old hunter is still hovering like this is a restaurant and Dean's about to skip out on the check.

"Little space, Bobby," Dean says. When Bobby doesn't move, "You'll hear a splash if I fall in."

Bobby grunts. "Just don't expect mouth-to-mouth if you do."

Dean hears the bathroom door shut. He counts to two in his head, then sits down on the toilet and pees like a girl. He feels light-headed when he starts, and he damn near goes for a swim when he stands up and turns around to flush. Bobby's ready to catch him when he opens the bathroom door and falls through.

"You're killin' my back here," Bobby complains.

"Serves you right…givin' me roofies…"

"I shoulda put a catheter in while I was at it."

Standing up, Dean can see where part of the floor in front of the fireplace is conspicuously cleaner than the rest. He goes a little pale.

"I did a little cleansing ritual," Bobby explains. "Figured it couldn't hurt."

"Yeah," Dean says stiffly, hating Bobby for telling the truth most of the time and for his innate ability to flawlessly cover a lie the rest, hating himself for not being able to tell the difference.

By the time Bobby drops him back on his cot, Dean's picking at his IV. "Want this out…"

Bobby slaps his hand away. "Quit that. God only knows what's under your fingernails. Don't even try to tell me you washed after you pissed, 'cause I know you didn't."

Bobby's got the first aid kit cracked open and Dean can see what's inside: sterile instruments sealed in paper and plastic pouches, syringes, little bottles of clear fluid that look like water but aren't, rubbing alcohol, bandages in little rectangular boxes, latex gloves, lots of sharp objects that make Dean's heart beat faster just looking at them. The blood pressure cuff is on its way out.

"Can you stay sitting up?" Bobby asks him.

As soon as the words are out of Bobby's mouth, Dean is overcome by a powerful urge to be any angle but vertical. Instead of doing what his body wants, Dean nods and braces his hands on the cot on either side of himself.

"Did you rob a paramedic?" Dean asks to take his mind off of his complaining body and the tightening blood pressure cuff on his left arm.

"Called in a favor. A buddy of mine works up at the hospital in Sioux Falls. Now shut up for a minute."

The stethoscope is cold where Bobby presses it to the inside of Dean's elbow. The blood pressure cuff is painfully tight on his upper arm.

After what seems like forever Bobby presses the release valve and the blood rushes back into Dean's arm.

"I won't bore you with the numbers but your blood pressure's pretty low. You feel dizzy?"

Dean hates himself for nodding but it's not like Bobby's going to fall for a bullshit lie.

"Can we take this thing out now?" Dean asks, tilting his head toward his right hand.

"Still bothering you?"

Dean quirks a small, tired smile and tries for a casualness that he doesn't feel. "Just don't like foreign objects sticking out of me is all."

"I'll make you a deal: You keep some water and a little breakfast down and the IV comes out."

Dean feels thirsty just hearing the word "water". He doesn't have enough spit to swallow.

"Deal."

XXXXX

The breakfast Bobby has in mind isn't exactly ham and eggs with toast on the side, but that's probably for the best anyway. That shit would have hurt a lot worse coming up than strawberry-flavored Ensure. Now not only is Dean still thirsty and starving, but his stomach muscles are cramping from trying to expel his internal organs into the old Igloo Playmate cooler that Bobby shoved under his jaw.

After dumping Dean's recycled breakfast out in the woods, Bobby comes back inside and immediately stabs a finger in Dean's direction, "I'm gonna tape a sock over that hand if you don't stop scratchin' your IV."

Dean's lying down on his cot, spent. He drops his hands to his sides, hoping that he looks less pathetic than he feels.

"How'd you find this place, Bobby?" he asks.

"Belongs to a buddy of mine. I helped him build it back in the seventies."

"He a hunter?"

Bobby shakes his head. "Dentist. Got a practice out in St. Paul. He ain't been out here in years. Don't think he'll mind the guests."

"What're we hiding from?"

"We're not hiding. We're just keepin' our heads down."

"Same thing."

"Call it whatever you want. I call it being cautious."

"Is there something after us?"

"Isn't there always?"

"Humans? Demons?"

Bobby shrugs. "Little of both. Can't raise the dead without pissing somebody off."

Dean looks up, meets Bobby's eyes. Bobby drops his gaze and clears his throat.

"Sammy's okay, isn't he?"

Bobby thinks over his answer a few seconds too long and Dean starts to shiver.

"I'm sure Sam's fine."

"He's-" A coughing fit interrupts Dean's question. Bobby helps him sit up, gives him a sip of water from a bottle of Arrowhead. Dean takes the bottle from him. It's only a half-liter but as weak as he is it might as well be a fifty-gallon drum. He drinks just enough to wet his throat. Once he's got his breath back, Dean says, "He's coming. You said he was coming."

"Yeah. I did," guilty, like a man who's been caught in a lie.

"Where is he?" Worry and anger make his voice sharp.

Bobby gives him a look that says he's not crazy about Dean's tone, and if he were any other guy on any other day Bobby would smack the smart right out of his mouth.

Dean takes a breath, tries again, "Where is he, Bobby?" Forced calm, still desperate. "Please, I gotta know."

"I wish I could tell you," Bobby says, and the sincerity in his words catches Dean off-guard. "Truth is, Sam and I haven't been in touch for a while. He's sort of hard to reach these days."

Dean feels an ominous burning in his throat. Before he can ask, Bobby's got the Igloo cooler shoved between Dean's knees. Then the next few seconds are all white plastic and the smell of bile wafting up at him. There's barely any liquid to bring up, and when he's done his body just keep trying and trying. It hurts so fuckin' much that it brings tears to his eyes. Bobby gets up and comes back with a cold, wet washcloth. He lays it on the back of Dean's neck and just holds it there with the patience of a saint while Dean heaves and cries over that cooler like a fucking five-year-old girl over a broken tricycle.

When the tide of nausea finally ebbs, Dean wipes his face with the back of a shaky arm, shoots for casual, "Well, that sucked," but he couldn't sound any more pathetic if he tried.

Bobby sets the Igloo aside and shrugs. "It'll pass, but it's gonna be a while before you're good for more than holding a cot down. In the mean time it's important that you trust me and do what I say. Our situation's a little…touchy right now."

Bobby's tone of voice reaches something deep inside of him. He responds the way his Dad trained him to: "Yes sir."

"Glad we understand each other."

Suddenly Dean feels…really not so good. He moves to lie down. Bobby helps by getting out of the way.

"I think we'll keep the IV in for now."

And Dean can't bring himself to care one bit.

"If I was dying, you'd tell me, right?" Dean doesn't like to be caught off-guard by that kind of shit. Likes to have a little warning.

"You're not dyin', kid," Bobby tells him. "Just the opposite."

tbc...

Again, thank you for reading. Feedback is welcome.

Notes: I'll admit that I had some misgivings about finishing this story. I'm not going to tell you what they are, just that I had them. That said, if _you _have any misgivings about this story, please say so.

Thanks


	4. Part 3

Fic: Stacking Bones

3/5

Gen, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, AU after 3.16

Dean is obscenely pleased with himself when he finally manages to keep down half a bottle of water and one of those single-serving cups of Mott's applesauce that moms across America put in their kids' lunch boxes. Bobby looks relieved too. The man may have the patience of a saint but Dean imagines that he was getting a little tired of holding Dean's hair back, figuratively speaking.

The tape that holds Dean's IV in place has begun to collect dirt around the edges. As Bobby peals it off he warns Dean, "You give me any grief and I'll find someplace besides your arm to start a new IV."

"Point taken."

"Smartass."

Then the needle is out and Bobby's having him hold a cotton ball over the injection site while he gets a band-aid.

"Anything I can bring you to celebrate?"

"Beer?"

"Try again."

"Whiskey."

"Lord."

Just picturing a full shot-glass makes Dean want to cough up his applesauce, but it's worth it to see Bobby's reaction.

"Think I'd like to go outside."

"You want a smoke now?"

Now that's a thought, but no. "This scene's gettin' old. Some fresh air'd be nice."

"It's cold out," Bobby warns.

But Dean's always cold anyway. He might as well be cold and entertained.

Bobby has clothes for him: t-shirts, a couple of Henleys, socks and jeans in two different sizes, all with the tags still attached and smelling like whatever chemical the manufacturers used to set the dyes. The smallest pair of jeans is the one that fits the best, and even those are too loose in the waist. "You're down a few," Bobby says, handing him an old leather belt that obviously wasn't part of Bobby's trip to the mall. Dean struggles into one of the Henleys and tops it with two t-shirts. He pulls on two pairs of socks and has to stop for breath, vision swimming.

Bobby tucks the rest away in a nook by the front door that's not quite a closet. No door and no hangers, just a line of wooden pegs for coats and a shelf above them. There is a blue button-up shirt and a pair of dark slacks already hanging there, right above his old boots. Those are the only items of clothing that Dean recognizes as his. Dean remembers that he bought the shirt at a thrift store in Tempe. The slacks used to belong to a suit, but he lost the jacket when a phantom chased him over a barbed-wire fence in…Bismarck? St. Cloud? Somewhere cold. Somewhere that it would have been nice to have a jacket. A two-mile hike through the driving wind and snow to your car will make you remember shit like that.

Bobby brings Dean his boots and Dean asks, "Are we going to a dance?" nodding at the shirt and slacks.

Bobby doesn't smile, and that should tell him something. "I hung onto those…wasn't sure if you'd want to keep 'em or not."

Like an idiot, "Why?"

Bobby licks his lips, drops the boots at Dean's feet "Those are the clothes that you were buried in."

Oh.

Dean feels goose bumps on his arms even under three layers of new clothes. He's not sure he's any better qualified to make that decision than Bobby is, but when he pulls the boots on and laces them up, he feels like he's coming home.

XXXXX

Bobby was right. The first thing that Dean notices when he opens the front door on its squeaky hinges is the cold. It hits him like a punch in the gut and his balls try to climb up into the back of his throat. He's committed now, though, and after the initial shock it's actually kind of refreshing.

The sky beyond the trees is cloudless and iceberg-blue, a beautiful high-altitude spring day. Dean shivers and burrows deeper inside of the battered old coat that Bobby loaned him, shielding himself from the wind. Bobby is standing behind him, smirking, the sleeves of his sweatshirt rolled up like the cold doesn't matter. This is a man who's used to the outdoors, like Dean used to be.

The cabin has a wide porch, but no swing, thank God. That would just be weird. It does, however, have a low wooden bench and a couple of mismatched chairs, all as warped and gray as the porch itself, good for sitting on and drinking beer and hopefully maintaining their structural integrity long enough that a man can accomplish the first two.

Dean makes his slow way toward the bench, leaning on the outside wall for support. He can feel Bobby hovering behind him, ready to catch him if he trips, and that just makes Dean that much more determined not to. The five or six feet from the front door to the bench are Dean's Everest, and he flat-out conquers that mother.

Once he's down and the gray has retreated to the corners of his vision, Dean notices the trees. Actually, he notices what's carved _into_ the trees: big symbols, as tall as a man and vaguely man-shaped, too. Dean recognizes them, and knows that once upon a time, probably before he was born, the carved outlines were sketched using the blood of the artists who put them there.

"What kind of dentist did you say your friend was?" Dean asks.

"Just the ordinary kind. Didn't add those until years after place was built."

The carvings are part of a protection spell. Powerful old shit, the kind you use when you don't want anyone or anything, human or otherwise, to find you. The carved lines are cracked and warped, deep black gouges that have sunken into the wood with the passage of time, growing stronger. It would take a forest fire or an atomic blast to break the spell.

"Good place to be when the shit hits the fan," Dean says thoughtfully. "These all yours?" He can see at least a dozen carvings just from where he's sitting.

"Some. Other Hunters I've known have come up here to carve their own symbols over the years, close friends mostly. Most of them are either dead or in prison now. I haven't had a good enough reason to come here in a long time."

"Yeah?" Because what the hell kind of reason does Bobby need?

The wind kicks up, right on cue.

Dean licks his lips and the cold air dries them almost instantly. They crack when he smiles.

"I'm feelin' a little out of the loop here, Bobby."

"S'okay," Bobby says. "You didn't miss as much as you think."

"Doesn't feel that way." Dean laughs. He'd rather cry or hit or run but he can't do any of those things. "Only a year, huh? Felt like so much longer."

And Bobby's got nothing to say to that. Sometimes it's just better to listen than speak.

After a while Dean says, "Tell me about Sam."

"He'll find us," Bobby assures him. "Word travels fast. Every Hunter in a hundred mile radius knows what I did by now. Every damn demon too. It's only a matter of time."

"Yeah, I know. Just…tell me about him," Dean asks, uncomfortable with how needy it sounds.

"Okay," Bobby agrees, "What do you want to know?"

"Was he okay…after?"

Bobby gives him a measured look. "How much do you remember?"

"New Harmony…the little girl and her family. Lilith." Urgent, like it's going to help now. "She wasn't in the little girl anymore."

"Ruby. I know. Sam told me."

"Did she hurt him?"

"No," and Bobby's expression urges him to leave it at that. Just take what he can get and be grateful. Dean's gut agrees, and it's never steered him wrong.

"Did the family get out?"

Bobby nods. "They were fine. There's gonna be a lot of therapy in that little girl's future, though. Neighbors all woke up, soaked to the bone and freezing on the lawn. Didn't take 'em long to call the police, but long enough for me and Sam to get you out." And that's where Bobby stalls, caught in the memory, and it's Dean's turn to wait patiently.

"We...tried a few things…to bring you back."

Dean imagines candles and books and chalk lines drawn on a wooden floor, a dead body rotting in a living room or an empty warehouse or a dank basement, his body, but not him. Bobby's an honest man, but Dean knows he'll never hear the full story of those first few days, not from him, not ever.

"We did everything we could think of, called everyone we knew. Eventually it was just time," by the end of the sentence Bobby's voice has fallen down to a low pitch, and it sounds like wet gavel. "I knew it. Sam knew it. He was strong. Your Dad woulda been proud."

Dean can't decide how he should react. He should be proud. He should feel anything but what he feels, which is nothing at all. Empty and numb.

Bobby continues, "We buried you outside of Rapid City, near a little creek where you boys and your Dad used to fish. Sam said you liked it there."

"I did like it," Dean says. Caught the biggest damn trout he'd ever seen in that creek. He was ten. Dad was between jobs and it was the first food outside of Skittles and Fritos they'd seen in days. Dean wrestled with that thing for ten minutes. Took him and Dad both to reel it in. They gutted it, cooked it and ate it caveman-style by the fire, and Dean remembers that Dad let him have the biggest share. Dean was the king of the hill for days after that.

Yeah, he liked that creek alright.

Bobby clears his throat. "Well, Sam didn't want to burn your body. Wasn't sure right then if I agreed with him or not. I wasn't about to tell him 'no'."

"Sam wasn't…he was okay?"

"He was grieving. He was pissed off. Kept himself busy lookin' for a way to bring Lilith down. And he found it, too."

"Lilith's dead?"

"You wouldn't be here otherwise."

Dean nods and forces a smile. "That's my boy."

Lilith is dead. Lilith is gone and he's alive. He should feel satisfied, relieved. He should feel good, but instead he feels like there's a hole inside of him, like something is missing, something's been taken from him and he'd never going to get it back.

"How'd he do it?" Dean asks.

"Even if you knew I couldn't tell you. Sam and I went our separate ways months ago. Guess he didn't need an old codger like me slowin' him down." There's disappointment in Bobby's voice, and maybe a little resentment. "He used to swing by the yard once a month or so. We'd have a beer, talk about everything but you. Eventually we just ran out of things to say."

"When did you see him last?"

"Four months ago. Maybe five."

"Did he look okay? Was he, you know, taking care of himself?" Dean tries not to keep the desperate edge out of his voice. Doesn't succeed.

Bobby looks at him for a moment, right into Dean's eyes. The words come, torturously slow, and they are thoughtful, restrained, "Last I saw of Sam he was a little leaner, a little more quiet. He looked good, though, healthy."

Dean nods, eagerly taking in Bobby's spare answer. He asks, "What about my baby?"

"The Impala? Last I saw it that old scrap heap's the cleanest it's ever been."

Dean lets out a small, relieved bark of laughter. "Just tell me he didn't toss my music."

"I doubt that. But if he thought you'd climb out of Hell to kick his ass for it, he probably would have." Bobby's smile fades. "He misses you somethin' terrible."

"Is he still hunting?"

"Far as I know."

Dean's jaw tightens, almost trembling. He can feel tears prickling his eyes and he tells himself it's just the wind. He hears himself say, "Always hoped he'd go back to school, you know? Finish his degree, have a nice, safe life. Told him I didn't, but I figured that's what he'd do if I ever…wasn't around anymore. That's what he always wanted, ever since he was a little kid. Hunting was never his calling, not like it was for Dad and me. It was perfect, Bobby: Me out of the picture, nothing keeping him on the road anymore."

Bobby's shaking his head slowly back and forth, "No…Son, you don't mean that."

"At the end, when I knew there was no way out, I kept thinking about Sam meeting a nice girl, having kids, growing old and I thought, 'this is what I bought for Sammy'. Made it a lot easier to pay the bill."

The look that Bobby gives him is openly pitiful. "Hell of a tab if you ask me."

"Yeah, Hell of a tab." Dean has to pause for a breath, because this next part is hard, "I remember it, you know?"

Bobby looks puzzled, but the old hunter is too wise to interrupt.

"Hell. I remember it."

Bobby waits a long time before he asks, "Did you want to…?"

"Talk? Fuck no," but he's gonna, God help him. Can't keep his trap shut about something like this, not when he feels like he's a walking open wound, oozing pain and anger.

Bobby just looks at him, calm and steady, a man who's seen too much in his life to look away.

"You have no idea man. I hope you never do." Laughs because he might just cry. "Demons, devils, pitchforks: that's all a bunch of horseshit. There aren't any flames and nobody's playin' the Goddamn fiddle, that's for sure. Whoever runs that place fuckin' _knows_. They know how to get to you. They know. Everything."

Dean's face is burning from the restraint he's showing, because he could talk all day and not be able to explain Hell to somebody who hadn't been there. And even if he could, he couldn't, because he's not going to lay that on Bobby's shoulders, how Hell stripped him down, took away all that was good, showed him what he was, showed him why he _deserved_ to be there, showed him why he deserves to go back.

Dean scrubs a hand across his face, wipes wetness into his hair. He draws in a shaky breath. "I can't do this...I'm sorry, Bobby. Fuck."

While Dean is talking, Bobby approaches him slowly, like Dean's a wounded animal, and sits down next to him on the bench. This close, Dean can feel the body heat coming off of the man, and it's tough not to lean into it. God, he wants to be six years old again. He wants Uncle Bobby to put his arm around him, the same way Sam always would, the way Dad rarely did, and tell him that everything is going to be okay, even though he knows deep down that nothing is ever going to be okay again.

"You know what the worst part was?" He is crying now, hot tears that he swipes away before they can fall, and he's smiling an awful smile, the one that says that the universe and everyone in it has had a huge laugh at his expense. Ironic. "I was alone. And I would have done anything, and I mean _anything_ to get out, but the only thing I could do was scream. So I screamed for Sam. I begged for him to come and help me. I begged him over, and over, and over again. Then I stopped. I gave up, because I realized that all the screaming in the world wasn't going to save me, because Sam wasn't coming."

When Bobby finally speaks his voice is so low that Dean has trouble hearing it. He says, "Sam never gave up on you."

Rationality abandons him, and Dean demands, "Then where is he, Bobby? Huh? Where the Hell is he?"

Bobby opens his mouth, and then closes it without saying a word.

Dean's breathing is louder than the wind.

"Leave me alone, Bobby."

"Dean…"

"Just leave me the fuck alone!" Dean shouts, unable to meet Bobby's eyes. The naked rage in his voice shocks him. There's so much anger inside of him, like a volcano waiting to erupt. It scares him. A quick glance at the older man tells him that it scares Bobby too.

Breathing hard, speaking quietly, Dean says, "Please leave me alone."

Bobby pauses only a moment, then he turns on his heel and walks into the cabin, leaving Dean alone on the cold, windy porch. His familiar parting words are, "You know where I'll be."

Dean loses track of how long he sits there, staring out into the woods like all the answers are there. His face is numb. His eyes are watering. When he stands up his joints feel like they're made of wood, creaky and stiff.

Bobby's folding clothes when Dean comes in from the cold. He's making a neat stack on Dean's cot, shirts and boxers, freshly washed and dried by the fire. He pauses and looks up at the younger man, framed in the doorway, old coat pulled tight around his shaking shoulders.

"I'm sorry." But he doesn't feel sorry at all. He feels like he could tear the world apart and never feel sorry, not one bit.

Bobby says, "Come inside and shut that door behind you."

Dean stands there for a moment, staring. Then he does what he's told.

"Now get your ass in here and sit down before you fall down."

Dean walks around the chair and sits heavily. He feels, all at once, so very tired.

"You want that beer now?"

"Yeah."

Bobby gets up from where he was sitting on Dean's cot. He brings two warm beers back from the kitchenette, tosses the caps into the fireplace. He puts one of the bottles in Dean's hand, but Dean doesn't drink.

"I'm sorry," Dean repeats, trying to make himself believe it.

"You don't hafta be."

"Yeah, I do. I should." Dean picks at the corner of the label on his bottle of beer. Nervous habit. It's been so long since the last time he did this. "Saved my ass."

Bobby takes a long pull from the neck of his beer bottle, and Dean thinks maybe he didn't speak loud enough for Bobby to hear. Then Bobby says, "I know you got questions, kid," still looking into the fire.

After a long, dark silence Dean asks, "How'd you do it, Bobby? How'd you bring me back?"

Bobby waits a moment to reply, long enough to let Dean know who's in charge of this conversation. "Wasn't easy," he says, "Wasn't cheap," Bobby looks him dead in the eye, "and it wasn't perfect."

Dean's chest feels tight. His scars itch.

"Did you make a deal?"

"Hell no. Do I look stupid to you?" Bobby asks.

Dean looks at the floor.

Gentler, Bobby tells him, "I said that Sam and I tried everything we could think of. Well, I didn't try _everything_ I could think of. There's some shit you just don't drag your friends into. Know what I mean?"

And Dean does. He really does.

"There's a cut on your chest," Bobby continues, gesturing with a hand like a blade. "Goes right through your tattoo, the one that's s'posed to fend off possession."

Dean rubs the area that Bobby's talking about. He can feel the raised scar tissue even through three layers of clothing: a perfect, vertical line.

"Hellhounds didn't give you that," Bobby explains. "I had to break the charm so that I could summon you back."

"Summon me…"

"Universe has rules, kid. You summon a demon, no matter where they are, they have to come."

Demon.

He's quiet and still for so long that Bobby asks, "You understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes," Dean answers. Can't get something for nothing. Can't bring a man back from the dead without consequences. This is Hunting one-oh-fucking-one.

Dean Winchester brought a little bit of Hell back with him.

Bobby continues, "I crossed a lot of lines to get you back, son, and after all that I wasn't even sure what I was bringing back would still be you."

Dean looks up. "And if it wasn't?"

"I'd cross that bridge when I came to it."

The bottle of beer is still in Dean's hand, still full, warming with the heat of his body and the heat of the fire.

"What's dead should stay dead," Dean quotes. Seems funny to him now. "Not very good at following our own rules, are we?"

Bobby raises an eyebrow and says, "I'm an old man. Don't have much use for rules anymore."

"So what kind of bridge are we talking about here?"

Bobby shrugs. His motions are loose with drink. The beer in Bobby's hand isn't his first of the day. "A devil's trap won't hold you. Holy water won't burn you. A line of salt ain't gonna keep you from walkin' right out that door." He gestures with his beer bottle. "As for the rest," Bobby shrugs, "we're in uncharted waters."

The yellow-eyed demon's ominous words fill Dean's head: _How certain are you…? _And long-forgotten doubts about Sam turn to doubts about himself.

"What happens now?" Dean asks.

"Drink your beer, that's what happens now."

Dean raises the bottle of beer to his lips and drinks. It's bitter. The flavor is sharper than he remembers, and maybe he's imagining the musty aftertaste, the flavor like waterlogged crucifix. Bobby's always been the kind of man who likes to hedge his bets, and Dean wouldn't put it past him to try the same tricks twice, especially when they work. Dean doesn't miss the way the old fox watches him out of the corner of his eye, not nearly as drunk as he pretends.

Aside from the usual light-headedness that comes with drinking on an empty stomach, nothing happens. He only finishes half of the bottle before his muscles feel like liquid and his head starts to swim. Bobby calls him a cheap date. He puts Dean to bed, and puts the cooler by his side.

Dean lies on his back and closes his eyes against the spinning ceiling. When he opens them again it's pitch black except for the orange glow from the fire, quiet except for Bobby's snoring. He gets up and stumbles across the cabin to the small closet where his clothes are hanging. In the low light everything is gray, but he knows what he's looking for by feel. He takes down the shirt and pants that Bobby said he was buried in. They're musty, dirt crusted in the seams. The smell reminds Dean of a graveyard.

He puts them in the fire to burn, and takes a lot of satisfaction in watching the flames devour them.

In the morning, Bobby wonders out loud where the strange smell is coming from. When he sifts zipper teeth and buttons out of the ashes in the fireplace, he doesn't say a word.

_tbc..._

_Notes: Is it just me, or do stories get harder and harder to write as you get towards the end?_

_This chapter was the most challenging chapter to write. This was where I had to abandon my notion of writing a simple hurt/comfort story and actually answer some questions. It drove me nuts. Every time I re-read it I felt like I had to change something. Eventually I just decided to stop picking at it and let it be what it is. So there you go. Love it? Hate it? Say so._

_Enough self-depreciating rambling!_

_Thank you for reading, and a big thanks to everyone who has responded in the short time since I posted the first few parts. You guys rock!_

_Some of you expressed concerns about Sam and what he's been up to. I don't want to ruin it for you, but like Bobby said: Sam is coming, just not right away._

_Feedback is welcome._


	5. Part 4

_Fic: Stacking Bones_

_4/5_

_Gen, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, AU after 3.16_

_Further warnings in this chapter: mild adult content, further use of the F-word amongst other four-letter words_

One step forward, two steps back.

Over the next few days Dean's body temperature never drops below ninety-nine degrees. Worse, it rises at night, and the fever brings with it a slavering pack of Hell Hounds to stalk him in his sleep.

Dean wakes up gasping, clawing at the walls, driving splinters under his fingernails and pealing the skin off of his knuckles. He wakes Bobby with his thrashing and the old Hunter scrambles out of his sleeping bag to restrain Dean's sweaty wrists so that he can't hurt himself.

Bobby digs the splinters out from under Dean's nails, cursing under his breath because the light from the fire is too dim and Dean can't or won't hold still for him. Bobby cleans the cuts with alcohol, maybe a little more roughly than is strictly necessary. Dean endures the treatment in sullen silence, shrugs away from Bobby's touch when the old Hunter tries to squeeze his shoulder reassuringly. He's too sick to push Bobby away, too angry to let himself be comforted, and not sure he deserves comfort anyway.

Dean is always angry, resentful of the help he needs to do basic things. He curses, he shouts, he slams his fist into the wall, and Bobby bandages that too. The older Hunter tolerates his meltdowns with a steady and patient hand. He sits up all night when Dean refuses to shut his eyes. They stare into the fire, too tired to talk, until the sun creeps in through the dirty windows.

After the third night they're both snappish and irritable, red-eyed and sore.

"Think we need to start the IV again," Bobby tells him.

Dean hasn't kept anything down since yesterday. His skin feels tight, hot and flushed, ready to split open along his scars.

"You listening?" Bobby asks, voice rough as sandpaper, like he's coming down with something.

"Huh?" Dean asks dully. His eyeballs feel like they've been taken out of his head, dropped in the dirt and then shoved back into their sockets.

With a tired sigh Bobby retrieves the medical kit from where it's stashed underneath Bobby's cot.

Dean watches him, too drained to move. "No," he says, but his protest is too small to be heard or so weak that it can be ignored.

Bobby opens the top of the kit, not even looking his way.

"No," Dean tries again, while he watches Bobby dig around in that fucking tackle box, pulling out tubes and syringes and other shit in sterile paper-and-plastic pouches that make Dean's skin crawl just looking at them.

Dean shakes his head back and forth on the cot and folds his arms tightly over his chest as Bobby approaches him with that sky-blue plastic strip in hand. He knows the message has to be getting through but Bobby doesn't pause for a second.

"Too bad," Bobby tells him.

Bobby grabs his arm. The movement is predator-quick.

Dean feels a surge of black anger like a flash flood.

He reacts on instinct.

The tape skips, and next thing Dean knows he's on his feet and Bobby is pinned to the wall, gasping for breath, heels hammering the wall behind him. There's white showing all around his eyes and he's clawing at his throat, trying to free himself, lips turning blue as he loses the fight.

And Dean's not touching him.

Dean is on the other side of the cabin, shoulders to the wall. His lips are pulled back from his teeth in an expression that is part gratified smile, part inhuman snarl as he watches Bobby's eyes roll up into his head.

Dean sucks in a breath. The smile drops from his lips.

Bobby slumps to the floor, gasping. Color rushes back into his face, turning it bright red.

"Oh God," Dean mouths, and his strength, whatever brought him to his feet in the first place, leaves him. He folds over, drops to his hands and knees, breathing hard like he was the one have the life choked out of him.

Bobby watches from his prone position on the floor, tracking him like he's a dangerous animal. Bobby's left hand is in the air, ready to defend, and his right hand is hovering over his belt where his hunting knife, that wicked Natchez Bowie, lives.

"I'm sorry," Dean repeats, backing slowly away. He takes his hands and shoves them under his arms. "I'm not… Oh God, Bobby."

Bobby sits up, reluctantly withdrawing his hand from his belt, no weapon in sight.

"Easy," Bobby says, hands in the air, palms out.

"I'm not gonna…"

"S'okay," Bobby says, but he doesn't come any closer, doesn't back up because he can't walk through fucking _walls_.

Dean is trembling with something that's not fever.

"It's okay," Bobby repeats.

"I swear to God, Bobby. I'd never-"

"I know," Bobby tells him. "I know."

But the way Bobby keeps his distance, Dean's not so sure he believes him. This isn't the first time Dean's struck Bobby, but it's the first time he's done it without laying a damn finger on him.

It's the first time he's ever done it with the intent to finish the job.

Dean bolts.

He stumbles out to the porch and collapses on the steps, and he only stops there because he's shaking too hard to make it any further. His heart is hammering in his chest and he's sweating a frozen river down his back.

He's still panting when he hears footfalls on the steps behind him.

"Don't come out here, Bobby," Dean warns. He squeezes his eyes shut.

The footfalls come closer anyway, until they're right behind him.

"Come back inside," Bobby says, his voice tired and hoarse, and Dean's trying to make himself forget why it sounds that way. "You're not gonna hurt me."

Dean laughs, and there's an edge of hysteria in it. "Man, you don't know that."

But those words don't make Bobby go away. Next thing he knows Bobby's easing himself down beside him, glacier-slow, joints popping.

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder and that sets him off. Dean's almost shouting when he says, "Please, God, tell me we're not gonna have a moment, 'cause there ain't shit you can tell me that's gonna make this alright. If you tell me everything's gonna be fine, I swear to God…"

Bobby takes his hand away. "Do I look like your therapist, boy?"

"Fuck, Bobby," Dean exhales. He feels his cheeks burning. "I was gonna-"

"You were gonna what? If you've got some kinda unfinished business, then go right ahead. I won't stop you."

Dean just looks away. He shakes his head.

"I don't want to go back, Bobby."

Bobby's features soften. "I ain't gonna send you back."

"That a promise?" Dean laughs bitterly, bites his lips because fuck if his gonna _cry_ about it.

"Yeah, kid. That's a promise."

And Dean believes him, but at the same time he's pretty sure that there are a few hundred other folks out there waiting to get their hands on his tarnished soul. At least it's safe in Bobby's hands.

"You okay?" Bobby asks. He handles the words awkwardly.

"Yeah. Sure." But he's pretty fuckin' far from okay. He's not the first hunter to become the thing he hates the most. He's Gordon Fucking Walker, that's who he is.

Dean can tell Bobby doesn't believe him, but he says, "Good. Take these."

Bobby hands him two aspirin. It's a peace offering. Dean dry-swallows him, gagging a little on the bitter, chalky little pills.

"When you're done feelin' sorry for yourself you come back inside."

Bobby turns his back, goes inside and shuts the door behind him, abandoning Dean on the porch.

After about fifteen seconds, Dean follows.

He finds Bobby kneeling on the floor, packing his plastic tubes and bottles and bags into his borrowed medical kit. Looks like saline and glucose are off the menu for the moment.

Bobby pauses mid-motion and looks up.

"Don't really want to be alone right now," Dean admits.

And Bobby doesn't say anything. After a moment he continues re-packing the tackle box, closes the lid and pushes it back under his cot.

Bobby's knees are bad, so he staggers a little as he gets to his feet. He comes over to Dean and lays a heavy hand on his shoulder. Warmth flows into Dean through the connection. He thinks for a second that Bobby is going to pull him into a hug. He leans forward a little, and nearly loses his balance when Bobby drops his hand and backs away.

They don't say another word about what happened.

Not one.

Dean doesn't remember finding his cot and falling into a deep, dreamless asleep, but when he wakes up the sun is high and his fever is gone.

Over the next few days, Dean's strength and his appetite begin to return. Bobby starts letting him help out with chores around the cabin. At night they talk about old hunts and old friends over dinner. Bobby tells him that Ellen has finally scraped together the capital to open a new bar, this time in southern Oregon. She and Jo have patched things up, but not to the point where they'll ever live under the same roof anymore, or in the same state for the matter.

As he lies on his cot at night Dean finds himself preoccupied with thoughts of the little blond and, because Dean is a kinky son of a bitch, her mother too.

Hey, it's been a while.

And even if it hadn't been a while…

It takes for-gad-damn-ever for Bobby to fall asleep, and when the old Hunter's snores finally fill the cabin Dean sneaks off to the bathroom for some much-anticipated relief.

To his horror Bobby is wide-awake when he eases the bathroom door open, reading _Popular Mechanics_ in his creaky old chair by the fire. His eyes glide suspiciously over the top of the magazine, following Dean as the he slinks back to his cot and pulls the covers up over his head.

Bobby's voice finds him there: "There'd better not be anything for me to slip on in the morning."

Dean waits until Bobby goes back to bed, then he slips back into the bathroom with a handful of napkins and give the little room a good going-over, just to be sure.

Along with his libido, Dean's strength is returning, but he still finds himself overwhelmed by feelings of anger and frustration. They come out of nowhere. They're attached to nothing, but they overpower every simple pleasure, poison every little triumph. Even when he's laughing at one of his own jokes or helping Bobby with simple chores around the cabin those feelings are always present, just below the surface, and if he loses focus for a second, if he lets himself drift, he feels them rising up like a river trying to overflow its banks.

Dean keeps himself busy, focused on whatever task is in front of him.

He uses every tool at his disposal to keep the anger and hate at bay.

One day Dean finds an old deck of cards tucked away on the back of a shelf. He makes Bobby play every night, even when it's clear that the old hunter would rather read or sleep or just drink by the fire. Dean sits on the floor, Bobby in his chair. They use Dean's cot as a table and bottle caps as chips. It's an even match-up. Neither one of them is able to make a significant dent in the other's pile.

But not all of their bluffs have to do with the cards in their hands.

During the daytime Dean pushes himself beyond the boundaries that Bobby sets. He'll take the lectures it earns him afterwards if it means that he can fall into a deep, exhausted, dreamless sleep at night after a few hands of poker.

In his sleep the Hell Hounds don't chase him anymore.

Dean is secretly afraid that that reason they've given up their pursuit is that they've already caught him.

XXXXX

Dean estimates that he and Bobby have been at the cabin for ten days when the trees begin to bleed.

Dean drags himself out of bed at dawn's first light and finds Bobby already hard at work around the back of the cabin, sawing a felled tree into logs for firewood. He pauses when he sees Dean, drapes an arm over the log, blowing steam out of his nose like a fire-breathing dragon.

"You gonna stand there all day or are you gonna help?" Bobby asks. That's the permission that Dean's been waiting for since he started rebuilding his stamina. So far Bobby has tried, with limited success, to keep the more strenuous chores for himself.

There's a rusty old axe sticking out of a stump on the property. Bobby waves a hand toward it and says, "Think you can raise that over your head enough times to split a few logs?"

As an answer Dean hefts the axe and gives Bobby his best pirate smile.

"Don't cut your foot off," Bobby warns him. "Emergency Room is fifty miles away, Paul Bunyan. Just remember that."

Dean's confident smirk tightens until his mouth is a grim, determined line. Over the protesting of his atrophied shoulder muscles he gets down to the serious business of splitting logs.

It takes all of six minutes for Dean to sweat through his shirt under the arms and around his collar. After what feels like an eternity Bobby leans his saw against the cabin and dusts his hands off on each other.

"I'm gonna get breakfast started. You good?"

Dean acknowledges Bobby with a grunt, a glance and a nod, but he stays bent to his task. As soon as Bobby disappears around the side of the cabin he drops the axe and then drops his arms onto his knees, gasping for breath. What started out as a simple chore has evolved into a torturous exercise in discovering how big a dent being dead for a year has made in his fitness level.

After, like, forever the stars clear and Dean gets his breath back, but it still takes him three tries to pick the axe up off of the ground. The overtaxed muscles in his hands and forearms just aren't having any part of it. He can't even close his hands all the way. With a Herculean effort he holds onto the axe long enough to lean it next to Bobby's saw, then he leans himself next to the axe and closes his eyes. Damned if he's gonna let Bobby see him stagger into the cabin, panting like an asthmatic Labrador. He's still got a few scraps of pride left, until tomorrow at least, when his arms will be so sore that he won't be able to get his shirt on over his head.

Scratch that. When Dean lifts his head and opens his eyes he finds Bobby standing at his elbow, holding a tin cup full of black coffee in each hand. Dean hadn't even heard him coming.

"Hey, Bobby."

Bobby regards him with a flat, unreadable expression. He takes a sip out of one of the cups and hands the other one to Dean. Dean's arms are so overworked that he has to use two hands to hold it, and he's breathing too hard to drink. He ducks his head and breathes through the worst of the light-headedness. And bless his grizzled old heart; Bobby doesn't say a word.

Dean realizes that at some point he's sunk down to the ground and he's now sitting in the dirt. Bobby drops to a crouch beside him.

"I'm not goin' to turn you out of the house for not pullin' your own weight. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know. I'm good. Really."

"You're hard of hearing is what you are. You _tryin_' to piss me off, or is this just a gift that you have?"

"Gift."

But Bobby doesn't laugh, doesn't even crack a smile. He just looks at Dean, gives him that piercing stare that says he can see right through Dean's jokes and bullshit, right to the core of him. It makes Dean's insides clench, being read like that by someone who knows him so well.

"Do me a favor, kid," Bobby says, strangely warm. "Go easy on yourself."

"I'm fine." Defensive, almost upset.

"Not what I asked."

Dean drinks from the tin cup, coffee so hot that it burns all the way down. He doesn't say anything more.

Bobby looks away, like the sight of him is too painful, or like he's a lost cause. "Come inside. Breakfast is on."

Breakfast is oatmeal that day, lumpy and bland. They've run out of everything else.

Dean scrapes his bowl clean anyway and asks for seconds.

Bobby glances at the empty pan on the small stove. He pushes his own breakfast across the small kitchen table toward Dean. Dean hesitates, eyes darting from the food to Bobby and back again, a slave to his body's demands.

"Go on. My fat ass can stand to skip a few meals."

That's all the encouragement Dean needs. He only hesitates a second more before diving in. He doesn't come up for air until he's practically licked the bowl clean.

"Feel better?" Bobby asks, monotone.

Dean nods, breathless. His hands are shaking, bones standing out prominently under the skin. He has to fight the urge to ask for more, because he knows there isn't any.

"Gonna make a run to town today," Bobby says. "Load up on supplies."

"I'll come with you," Dean says, eager for a ride in the car as a damn dog. Might even stick his head out the window if given half a chance, but Bobby is shaking his head before Dean can even finish his sentence.

"Stay here. Rest up. Keep an eye on the place until I get back."

Dean glances doubtfully around the well-worn, dusty interior of the small cabin. "Not much here to keep an eye on."

"It's too dangerous. Unless you forgot, there are things out there lookin' for us. Pissed-off things."

"Right, so you'll need somebody to watch your back."

Bobby shakes his head. "I'm used to working solo. Might get caught off-guard if I have you to look out for you."

"I can look out for myself." But he feels like he's fourteen years old again, just coming into his strength and size, struggling to assert himself as a hunter, an equal.

Bobby won't look at him. He says, "Not this time. Told you that you'd have to trust me, so trust me and do what I tell you." It's firm, an order, just like Dad used to give, and Dean replies the way he was trained:

"Yes sir," but he's looking at Bobby wide-eyed.

The last thing on earth that Dean wants is to be left alone.

Bobby gets a very sad look in his eyes. He opens his mouth, closes it, and says finally, "Just stay here like I told you. Don't cross the tree line."

"Yes sir."

Bobby comes to him, wraps a heavy hand around the back of his head, same as he used to when Dean was pup.

Good dog.

Good boy.

"You trust me, don't you?"

"I trust you, Bobby. 'Course I trust you."

"Don't cross the tree line."

Bobby selects a shotgun and a revolver from the arsenal in the trunk of the Chevelle, leaves these and his Bowie knife on the kitchen table. There's rock salt and holy water in the cabinets, as much a staple of their lives as rice or flour to everyone else. Bobby gives Dean a quick, unnecessary review of all these items, which doesn't include instructions on what to do if Bobby doesn't come back.

Before Dean can throw together another argument he finds himself alone on the porch, wrapped in Bobby's jacket, watching the Chevelle lumber off down the overgrown dirt road until he loses sight of it amongst the trees. Once the rumble of the V8 engine has receded, Dean retreats back into the cabin, alone for the first time since he climbed out of Hell.

Dean throws a couple of logs on the fire, but can't seem to chase away the chill that's settled deep in his bones, or the feeling that someone, somewhere is watching.

He showers, cranking the hot water up as hot as it will go, which isn't that hot. He lets the water run while he strips down in front of the bathroom's small, cracked mirror and studies himself, running a hand over cheekbones that haven't been this sharp since he hit his last growth spurt at seventeen. The mirror isn't tall enough to show him his chest or the lower half of his body, and that's probably for the best because what he can see of himself puts him in mind of cancer patients and glassy-eyed fashion models. Besides, he can do without a closer look at his scars.

Dean stands under the sputtering old showerhead until his fingers and toes start to prune up and the water goes cold. He towels off, rides out the dizziness from the lingering heat, one hand against the bathroom wall.

Bobby said that the nearest town was two hours away. Dean gives him five hours, round trip, so four hours from now, four lonely hours. Dean considers how he could fill them. There's no shortage of chores around this place. He could even try splitting the rest of the logs, even though Bobby told him to leave it, even though he knows how much it would piss Bobby off.

Instead Dean finds himself staring into the fire, hair still wet, shoulders wrapped in the old blanket he used to dry himself off with.

"Sam."

That's the magic word, the key that unlocks everything. Sam is his strength and his weakness, the one person he'd go all in for, and had. He's trained himself not to think of Sam, afraid that the anger he's been keeping so carefully in check will rise up and sweep him away like a riptide.

"Sam," he says again, and for a terrifying instant he can't even picture his brother's face in his head.

He takes a deep breath and Sammy comes to him as a chubby toddler in red overalls, unsteady on his feet, quick as lightening on his short legs. He's racing around some anonymous motel room. Dean's not far behind, ready to catch him when he falls, ready to save him from sharp corners and carpet edges and all of the little dangers inherent in their small world.

When Dean lets go of the warm memory the only thing he feels is emptiness.

Dean pulls on jeans and a t-shirt and walks out onto the porch, cold air stinging his face and his bare arms, splinters digging into his feet. He grips the railing until his fingers ache, listening to the wind whistling through the trees, fingertips digging into the rotten wood of the railing like he can tear it off. He can't, but his fingers leave marks, and when he raises his head, breathing hard, there's someone standing a little ways off in the trees, a woman, standing so still that Dean's convinced he's seeing things, until she starts moving toward him.

The wind is blowing again, but it doesn't touch her long hair. The leaves on the ground don't make a noise when she treads on them.

Dean stands frozen, hands still gripping the railing.

She only gets as far as the circle of carved trees, but it's close enough for Dean to see her…to really see her.

"Hey, Dean," Ruby greets him. "Long time no see."

That's when the trees begin to bleed.

XXXXX

Ruby, in her new body, paces outside the circle of carved trees like she's a cat and Dean is a fat, tasty canary. She's taller than she was before, dark-haired and dusky-skinned, young and lithe. The girl who belongs in that body must be barely out of high school.

"Well, well. Dean Winchester, back from the dead. I wouldn't believe it if I wasn't seeing it with my own two eyes."

Dean finds his voice and puts all of his rage behind it. "Those aren't your eyes, bitch."

Ruby shrugs her slender shoulders, casual, unhurried. "Well, the last one wasn't in very good shape after Lilith got through with it. She got her dues. Did Bobby tell you?"

"Don't care," Dean replies, short and simple, guarded.

She reads him, his careful glances, his measured words, and smiles like it's the most amusing thing this side of the pit.

"'Course you do," she says.

Dean watches her feet as she paces back and forth between two of the carved trees, like there's an invisible wall joining them, keeping her from getting any closer.

"So how you been, Dean? Did you come back nice and tan?"

"Not even close to funny."

"Oh, I know. Spent a few more centuries downstairs than you did. Believe me, Hell's not the type of place that grows on you."

"You didn't track me down all the way out here just to compare notes, and I gotta tell you, reminiscing about a place I'd just as soon forget? So not worth me freezin' my nuts off out here."

"Oh, I've got a good reason for being here. Come down here and I'll show you."

Dean finds a spark of humor in himself and fans the flame. "Sorry, I think I'll pass. I'm not wearin' any shoes right now. But, hey, why don't you come on up here? We'll sit by the fire, shoot the breeze, drink some beers and reminisce about the good old days." He pauses, tilts his head like a thought has just occurred to him, "Oh. Wait, that's right. There _were_ no good old days."

"Can't get any closer than this. Bobby knows his stuff, I'll give him that. Took me a while to find you."

"What do you want from me?"

"From you? Nothing. I just came to talk. I've been here for days, watching, waiting for an opportunity."

"If you hurt Bobby at all, I swear I will make you scream before I exorcise your ass back to the pit."

"Haven't touched him. This is all about you, Dean. I came here to help you."

"Well, pardon me if I doubt your sincerity."

Ruby shakes her head. "After everything I've done to help you and your brother…fixed the colt, showed you where to find Lilith…you still don't trust me. I could have saved you if you weren't such a stubborn asshole. You should have trusted me then and you need to trust me now."

"Because you're the Mother Theresa of demonic skanks, I know. Giving 'til it hurts out of the kindness of your little black heart."

Ruby tilts her head, regards him with ink-black eyes. Her human face is just a mask, and what's hiding behind it is terrible.

"Is that any way to talk to an old friend? Especially now that we have so much in common?"

"Bitch, we ain't got nothin' in common," he growls even as he tastes the lie.

"Don't be so sure about that."

With one slender finger she reaches out and touches the carving on the tree closest to her, intercepting a crimson rivulet seeping up out of the wood. Then she raises the bloody digit to her lips and licks it clean, closing her eyes in ecstasy.

Dean tastes copper on his tongue. He shakes his head to clear it, and when he looks at Ruby again, she's watching his reaction, smiling that smug little smile.

"What's your game this time?" Dean snaps. The words taste like salt.

"You talk pretty tough for a caged rat." She pats the tree with an open palm. "Especially when it was your friend who put you here."

"Nice try. I know this spell. The carvings are for protection."

"Protection for you. Protection for the world, kind of like a supernatural contraceptive device."

Dean feels vaguely sickened by the analogy.

"Didn't you wonder why Bobby brought you here instead of someplace a little less…isolated?"

It's on the tip of Dean's tongue to answer, but damned if he's gonna let her own the conversation. "You got somethin' to say, you say it."

Ruby crosses her arms over her thin chest, a familiar pose struck by a different body. "Alright. Bobby's lying to you."

"Shut up," Dean growls.

"He's keeping you here until he can decide what to do with you."

"I said shut up!"

"No. You see, do you feel that anger boiling inside of you? That hate? That resentment? It's what gives demons their powers: abandonment, loneliness, longing, jealousy, pain, fear… oh yeah, I know, and those feelings don't go away. No matter how good a liar you are you can't hide them, and you can't hide what you are. Bobby can see that when he looks at you. That's why he's keeping you here until he can decide whether or not to send you back to Hell."

"I don't have to stand here an listen to this."

He turns his back on her.

"It's true," Ruby shouts after him. "You can deny it all you want but you know it's true. It's in you. It's in your blood and your bones. I know what you're going through, Dean. I've been there. I want to help you. Bobby says that he's keeping you here to protect you, but that's a lie."

Dean shuts the door on her voice, but it finds him anyway, seeping through the wood. No spell can keep her poisonous words out. She says, "There's only one person out here looking for you, Dean!"

"Leave me alone," he whispers, closing his eyes. "Leave me the hell alone."

Bobby would never lie to him. He trusts Bobby, trusts him with his life, trusts him with his goddamned soul.

He can't block out Ruby's last word, the one word that could plant a seed of doubt in Dean's rocky, infertile brain:

"_Sam._"

With an angry roar Dean yanks the door open. If he'd been at full strength he might have pulled the rickety thing right off its hinges. It slams against the inside wall and he stands there, breathing hard, searching the trees for a slender girl with long, dark hair and a demon's horrible face.

But Ruby is gone. The only indication that she was ever there in the first place is the echo of his brother's name inside his own head and the faint smell of sulfur on the wind.

_tbc..._

_Thank you for reading. Feedback is welcome._

_Final chapter will be up next week._


	6. Part 5

**Fic: Stacking Bones**

**5/5**

**Gen, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, AU after 3.16**

**Additional warnings in this chapter: Dark**

Bobby returns to the cabin before dark.

The wind has died down. Dean is playing solitaire on the porch when he hears the growling rumble of the Chevelle's v-8 engine. He sweeps his losing game into an untidy pile and gets to his feet, clattering down the steps as the car rolls into view.

He risks one last glance at the trees, but the air is still and Ruby is nowhere in sight.

He swings his attention back to the Chevelle, where Bobby is climbing out of the driver's side, cursing the rough road and his lower back and his aging body in general.

"Bob-_bay!_"

Dean's already waiting by the trunk of the car by the time Bobby makes his slow way around the back. Dean smiles at him like he's sweet-talking a cop, just hoping to Hell Bobby can't see right through him, but Bobby's preoccupied with kneading the knots out of his back muscles.

"How're things on the outside?"

Bobby shakes his head, pops the trunk and says, "Too quiet if you ask me."

The trunk is filled with bottled water, beer, canned food, coffee, other non-perishables and a big bottle of Jack Daniels, the closest thing to medical supplies that Dean can see.

Dean heaves the case of bottled water onto his shoulder.

"Easy, Tiger. Don't pull anything," Bobby warns.

"Got it. I'm good," Dean assures him, taking the steps two at a time. It's more than a little mortifying that this one single effort brings a frost of sweat to his forehead. When he returns to the Chevelle for his second load he leaves the case of beer for Bobby, taking instead a paper sack filled with beef jerky, trail mix (the kind with the faux m&m's, not carob chips) and coffee. He tops the sack off with the bottle of Jack and ducks into the cabin. Once he's in there he makes a big production of putting the supplies away, neat and organized, hiding his exhaustion behind tidy rows of canned beans.

Dean hears the trunk of the Chevelle slam shut, but Bobby stays outside, stretching his back on the porch.

Dean cracks open the cap on the JD, pours a couple of fingers into one of the same tin cups that they use for coffee, and takes it out to him.

"Better than aspirin."

It takes Bobby a second to react. Then he takes the tin cup, nodding gratefully.

"Got that right," Bobby says, distant. Dean puts it down to his back pain, but Bobby's eyes are on the woods.

"Anything happen while I was gone?" Bobby asks. His question comes out of nowhere. Dean jerks in surprise, grateful that Bobby is looking away.

Dean opens his mouth to make his guilty confession, but what he says is "No. Nothing," with a casual shake of his head. Then he turns around and moves back into the safety of the cabin.

Bobby doesn't turn around, just keeps staring off into the trees, searching.

XXXXX

To Dean, dinner that night seems longer and quieter than any other dinner he's ever had, and that includes the last year that he, Sam and Dad were all together under one roof, when the two of them only stopped glaring at each other long enough to take angry bites of food and break the occasional dish.

Bobby's no gourmet chef, and Dean's not what you could call a picky eater. The main and only course is Chef Boyardee's Ravioli, an old staple of Dean's childhood, right up there with Lucky Charms and Dinty Moore beef stew. It familiar dish should be a warm, comforting weight in his stomach, but the canned pasta has to share space with Ruby's words, and Dean can't decide which is heavier.

Bobby keeps his head down, sipping whiskey between bites, but Dean could swear he feels Bobby watching him all the same. He mechanically brings the fork to his mouth until his bowl is empty. All he tastes is salt, and he doesn't ask for seconds.

Bobby finishes his meal first, washes out his bowl and pours himself another shot of whiskey.

"You trust me, don't you?" Bobby asks.

Dean looks up, and for a split second his expression is open, unguarded and guilty as Hell itself. Bobby's eyes are glassy, and if he notices any discomfort, he doesn't say.

"You already asked me that."

"I don't mean 'do you trust me to watch your back' or 'do you trust me to brew the coffee with regular and not decaf'. I mean do you trust me to make the decision that's best for you, no matter what. Do you trust me to do that?"

Dean's eyes wander over Bobby's face, searching. He's never seen the man look more insecure. It makes him uneasy.

A quick glance at the whiskey bottle tells him this isn't the first time Bobby's refilled his cup. The older man's cheeks and nose are ruddy with drink. He's starting to slur his words.

Dean answers, "Yeah, Bobby. You're like a father to me. I trust you with my life." He can't help the nervous little smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You'd never let me down. I know that."

"No, Dean. I'd never let you down."

Dean is convinced that Bobby knows about Ruby's visit, but he clears the table without saying a word about it. Bobby seems to be in his own world tonight and that world doesn't include the cabin or the woods or even Dean. All that it includes is Bobby and his bottle of whiskey and whatever is going on inside of his head.

"Hey, Bobby?" Dean asks as the older man sits, staring into the fire. "Bobby?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"Did somethin' happen?"

Bobby only blinks at him.

"Like, when you were in town. Did somethin' happen? You seem…" he trails off, gesturing with his hand in a circular motion.

Bobby doesn't answer for so long that Deans' about to give up the ghost, go get himself a shot of Jack too, maybe drink the other half of the bottle and damn the consequences. That's when Bobby says, "Don't worry about what's out there."

Dean finds himself nodding. "Yeah, okay."

"Worry about what's in here," Bobby says, touching his tin cup to Dean's chest. The smell of whiskey, both from the cup and from Bobby, hits him like a freight train.

All the existential bullshit is really more Sam's thing, but Dean says, "Yeah, sure."

Bobby frowns at him. "You alright?"

"Yeah." He feels Bobby's eyes still on him, searching. "Just tired." And that's true enough. He makes a show of rubbing his hand across his face, which feels hot and red. Feverish.

"Maybe you should make it an early night," Bobby suggests.

"Every night's an early night," Dean says. A little bit of frustration and fear rise to the surface, and he lets it out. He says, "Just want to hit the road, Bobby. You know? Get back to normal. I appreciate you takin' care of me and everything, but you've got a business to run, dogs to feed, shit to hunt-" He almost says 'demons'.

Bobby looks up at him in a way that says: _There is no normal._

The words that come out of his mouth are, "We will, kid."

Dean smiles at him: trusting, grateful, and all the while he's doing it, the things that Ruby said are burning a hole in the back of his brain.

XXXXX

Dean goes to bed dead tired. His stomach is full. His back is sore and it's gonna be stiff as frozen shit after another night on that cot. His arms are like lead weights attached to his shoulders, rubbery and useless.

Sleep doesn't come.

He lies on his cot for hours, staring at the ceiling, watching the cabin grow darker as the fire dies down to a heap of smoldering embers. He discovers a dozen new physical discomforts; small things like splinters and blisters and strained muscles. And when he's sick of thinking about all of the things that are wrong with him, he leaves the warmth of his sleeping bag.

Now that he has regular use for them, Dean's boots live under his cot. He pulls them out, pulls them on and walks carefully to the door. Bobby's snores cover up the sound of squeaking boards under his feet and squealing hinges as he steps out into the night.

It's bone-chillingly cold. The mountain air is too thin to hold any heat after the sun disappears. Bobby hasn't said, but Dean figures they're in the Black Hills. Mount Rushmore can't be too far away.

The stars are unbelievably bright, so sharp and clear and white against the black sky that Dean can pick out constellations, something he's never cared about before, and doesn't really give a shit about now, except that they make him feel like there's something out there that's powerful and amazing and _good_.

The only sound is the faint rustle of leaves when the wind kicks up. That's all he can hear. All of the things that live in the woods: insects and birds and little night-dwelling animals, have all gone silent.

Dean hears her before he sees her.

"Can't sleep?"

Ruby is standing at the edge of the trees, looking up at him.

"You change your mind?" she asks.

"About you being a lying skank? No."

"Okay. Fair enough. Call Bobby, then. Bring him out here."

Dean bites his lip, comes down off the porch and takes a seat on the hood of the Chevelle, hands hanging between his knees.

"Sam," he says.

Ruby nods. "So I've got your attention now?"

"You know where he is?"

Ruby cocks her head, processing the information behind Dean's question. "Boy, Bobby really cut you out of the loop, didn't he?"

That burns him more than it should, because he trusts Bobby, goddamn it. Bobby would never lie to him, not without a damn good reason, but if what Ruby is saying is the truth, Bobby had one.

"Don't answer a question with a question. Where's my brother?"

She takes an instant too long to answer, looking at him like she knows the wait is torture. "Colorado, last I saw him. He's probably somewhere between Denver and Fort Collins right now."

Dean feels a small amount of relief at having any word about his brother at all, no matter how vague.

"Better than what Bobby gave you, isn't it?"

Dean's gratitude evaporates like mist on a hot summer day. "What do you want from me?"

"I told you: Nothing."

Dean laughs. Ruby throws up her slender little hands, "Hey, I'm not saying that I don't benefit. I'm just saying that my best interests aren't at stake here. Yours are. Well, yours and Sam's."

"You stay away from him."

"I think you've got it backwards. It's Sam who won't stay away from me. He's like an ex who won't return the ring. Even asked me to teach him a few tricks. I could do the same for you."

"No," Dean shakes his head. "That's not true."

"He'd do anything to save you Dean."

"Stop talking about him."

"Why? He won't stop talking about you: Dean this, my brother that. Ruby, I need you to help me save my pain-in-the-ass big brother."

Dean scowls at her and she puts up her hands. "His words, not mine."

"Well, you weren't a very big help, were you?"

"Wrong again, Evil Dead." Ruby looks around at the trees, the cabin, Dean. "Step one: kill Lilith. While Bobby was off rebuilding an engine or whatever he does in that junkyard, Sam and I tracked her down and did the dirty work, but aside from giving us the deep down warm fuzzies, killing her didn't do much. Even with Lilith dead the contract still stood. Just the ownership changed hands. And as willing to forgive your debt as Sam was, we still had two problems: You were dead, pushing up daisies, feeding the worms, taking the Big Sleep. Second, to coin a phrase, we didn't know where in the Hell your soul was. Seven levels of Purgatory and all that. Read your Dante. Man was a visionary."

Dean's head is spinning with the information, struggling to keep up as Ruby continues, "Had to start a running tab of all the demons I –or, I should say, _we_- owe favors to. That goes for you too, buddy boy. We'll talk later about setting up a payment plan."

"Sam would never go along with something like this."

"Yeah, he's a real pillar of virtue," Ruby deadpans. "You're oh for three right now, Dean. At least he didn't have to sell his soul. Breaks with Winchester tradition, I know. Sammy's always been a free thinker that way. Now where were we?"

"Purgatory."

"Right. So we got some help locating your soul, found a little black book in Louisiana with some big black magic and a ritual to help us get your soul into your body in a way that doesn't end with you eating brains or sucking blood out of high school co-eds. But a funny thing happened on the way to the graveyard: Sam spilled the beans. He got all excited, called Bobby, told him what we were about to do. Ten points if you can guess what Bobby said."

"What's dead should stay dead."

Ruby brings her hands together in slow, exaggerated applause. "And a bonus point for making it rhyme."

"Bobby saved me. Not you."

"However you want to look at it. Here's where it gets interesting: Bobby got to your grave before we did. All we found was a hole in the ground and bonfire made out of seasoned and seared coffin wood. Let me tell you, nobody can desecrate a grave like Bobby Singer.

"As you can imagine, Sam was a little…distraught, that is, until he put the fire out and realized that your body was gone. Bobby's a wily old fox. He kept us stomping out flames just long enough to get a head start. You know Sam. He's no quitter. He didn't come that far to go home empty-handed, so he stopped hunting ghosts and started hunting Bobby. Except Bobby wasn't looking for a new resting place for you. Sam and I did the legwork, but Bobby had the ritual already, filed away somewhere in that musty old library he calls a house. He just didn't tell Sam, because he knew if what he brought back wasn't you, Sam would never let him kill it."

"Well, that was entertaining. I've got one problem with your story. If you and Sam are on the same side, why isn't he here?"

"Figured if we spread out we could cover more ground. Besides, humans are a little on the slow side, even humans like Sam."

"You're lying."

"You're welcome," Ruby says. "And for the record I'm not lying. Why would I when the truth is so much worse?"

Dean slides off the hood of the car. "Thanks for the bedtime story."

"I was wrong about one thing."

"Just one?"

"He's not sending you back to Hell."

For an instant Dean sees past the demon, right down to the human that she used to be.

She tells him, "He has the colt."

Dean freezes.

Ruby goes on, "There's only one reason he wouldn't tell you about it. He's going to kill you, Dean. The only reason you're still around is because he's sentimental. He's known from the day he brought you back that you were wrong."

Dean shakes his head. "No," as the reality, that Ruby is likely telling him the truth, sinks in.

"I can help you. I can save you." Her voice rises in something like sincerity and she holds out her hands, imploring. "I can take you to Sam. All you have to do is come to me. I can help you cross the tree line."

Only a few feet separate Dean from Ruby's outstretched hands.

Very slowly, Dean turns back toward the cabin, back towards his friend, the man who's been like a second father to him for most of his life.

Ruby's voice follows him, "You stupid, suicidal bastard! You want to die here? Alone, in the middle of nowhere? Is that what you want? To never see your brother again?"

At the top of the steps he stops and turns to look at her. The expression she wears is angry and desperate and he knows by looking at her that she's exhausted her arsenal.

"If I leave here tonight you're on your own, Dean Winchester! I'm not coming back!" she shouts.

He whispers, very quietly, "Good."

XXXXX

Ruby is as good as her word. When Dean wakes up in the morning there's not even a trace of sulfur to mark her passing.

Dean makes up his cot with perfect military precision like he's expecting a bunk inspection from Corporal John Winchester himself. He helps straighten up the cabin, and while Bobby makes breakfast, Dean fetches in a few armfuls of firewood from the stack outside. In between loads he stretches his back and sucks in the aroma of eggs, sausage and bacon. Perishable luxuries. When Bobby asked if there was anything he could bring back for Dean, those greasy delights had been numbers one, two and three on the list.

The two men eat breakfast in silence, Bobby sipping coffee and watching Dean wolf down three eggs and almost every piece of meat that hit the frying pan that morning, carefully keeping his fingers on his side of the table. Dean's coffee has gone cold by the time he finishes wiping up every drop of runny egg yolk with a scrap of bread. He drains the cup in three easy swallows.

It's Dean's turn to wash dishes, but Bobby says, "You let me get those."

Dean offers Bobby another cup of coffee before he dumps the dregs off the porch.

"No thanks, kid."

Dean walks outside, feels the cold wind pricking up the hairs on his arms, and pours the pot over the railing, a stream of black liquid that splatters messily in the dirt. He rinses it with a little water from the rainwater barrel.

When he comes back inside the dishes have been cleared away.

Bobby's sitting on the table with four things lying out in front of him: a bottle of whiskey, two tin cups, and an antique handgun with a pentagram on the handle and an inscription on the barrel.

_Non timebo mala_.

I will fear no evil.

Dean approaches slowly, the scene before him drawing him in like a charm. He looks at the colt, then at Bobby, at the grim expression on the old hunter's bearded face.

Finally Dean asks, "Where'd you find it?" Casual and easy, like he's a curious bargain hunter at a swap meet.

"Bela sold it to a friend of a friend."

Dean nods, "Small world," and keeps nodding as he sinks down into the chair at the end of the table.

Once he's seated, Dean finds it in himself to smile just a little. "Guess all the cards are on the table now."

Bobby's right hand is on the colt. His left hand is on the bottle, pouring two shots flawlessly. He pushes one of the cups across the table.

"Have a drink, Dean."

Bobby's pushed the cup so close that Dean doesn't even have to lean forward to get it. He looks down at his reflection in the amber liquid. When he looks up, Bobby's thumb is on the hammer.

Dean drinks, slowly. He relishes the feel of the whiskey as it burns all the way down to his stomach.

He sets the empty cup carefully back down.

"I'm glad it's you," Dean says. And he is. Warmth spreads outward from his belly to the tips of his fingertips, and it has nothing to do with the whiskey.

Bobby doesn't say anything. He raises his own cup to his lips, never taking his eyes off of Dean, never taking his finger off the trigger.

Dean remembers that Bobby had a wife once. His words come back to Dean: _Everybody got into hunting somehow_. Bobby knows what it is to make hard choices, and to live with the consequences.

Bobby promised he'd never send Dean back. Dean's never known him to break a promise.

"Whatever's on the other side, it's gotta be better than Hell, right?"

Bobby doesn't return his smile. He doesn't even twitch.

"C'mon, Bobby. Say somethin'. Tell me a fuckin' story. Anything." Dean swallows the lump in his throat, because in the fairytales Bobby used to read him, there were no happy endings.

"If you're not going to talk, just go ahead and do it already. Here, I'll make it easy."

Dean stands. The barrel of the colt follows him. Then, Dean does what every instinct and his years of training are telling him not to do, and turns his back on the gun.

What follows is dead silence. There is a small, dirty window behind the sink, and a bug crawling along on the outside sill. The air in the cabin is a block of ice, and Dean is frozen inside of it.

"I talked to Sam yesterday."

Dean's skin jumps like he's been shot.

"I called him while I was in town, told him what I was gonna do. Thought he had a right to know. Thought you had a right to know too."

"Okay."

"Told him I'd be back at the salvage yard in a few days. Told him he could wait for me there."

"And what did he say?"

"Said he'd be there."

Sammy was finally coming for him. He'd be dead and cold, but Sammy was coming.

"Don't suppose you could give me a chance to say goodbye?" Hopeful and hopeless at the same time, because he already knows the answer before Bobby starts shaking his head.

"Can't risk it," Bobby tells him, flat. "Has to be here."

And Dean nods. He's already said his goodbyes to Sam. He hears himself ask, "If you'd known this was how it was gonna end, would you still have brought me back?"

Bobby answers without hesitation, "In a heartbeat."

"Hey, you tell Sammy it's okay," Dean says. "This is how it should be, and he can't blame you. You tell him to take care of himself…you tell him I love him."

"I'll tell him."

"Bobby?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"That was a hell of a last meal."

"You're welcome."

Dean grips the edge of the sink, knuckles white. There's a sound of chair legs scraping across the floor as Bobby stands up and cocks the hammer.

"Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

In this isolated, peaceful place no one will hear the shot. Just one quick moment and then Dean can rest. He can finally rest.

"I'm so damn tired…"

When the shot comes, it's loud, louder than anything Dean's ever heard in his life. It echoes off the cabin walls, scares the birds out of the trees outside. Through the broken window Dean watches them take flight, straight up into the blue sky.

_Notes: Part of me wanted to end the story here._

_The other part..._

_tbc…_


	7. Epilogue

**Fic: Stacking Bones**

**Gen, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, AU after 3.16**

**Epilogue**

**Additional warnings: Same as last chapter: Dark** (but not quite as dark)

It's a beautiful, cloudless day outside when Sam meets Bobby to collect his brother's body.

Sam arrives at Singer Salvage before dawn. He steers the Impala around the hulking shapes of rusted-out cars, their skeletons throwing grotesque shapes against the ground, the fence and the house. He pulls up slowly, carefully, and parks perfectly perpendicular to the front of the weathered old two-story, sets the emergency brake and gets out of the car.

It's taken him all year to get used to the sound of only one door slamming shut.

Bobby isn't here yet, so Sam lowers himself to sit down on the worn front steps of Bobby Singer's house. He keeps a vigil in the dark, silent and patient, and watches the sun come up. There are wind chimes above his head, rusty old relics of a better time. The sound they make when a breeze touches them is disjointed, broken and sad.

Sam watches cars as they pass by on the dirt road beyond Bobby's collapsing fence. He tries to guess the make and model before they come into sight. It keeps his mind occupied and his ears sharp until he hears the growling of an eight-cylinder engine, rumbling like a thunderhead as it moves closer.

Sam stands. His shoulder brushes the wind chimes, sets them jangling. His handgun digs into the small of his back, warm from the heat of his body.

Bobby's Chevelle pulls into sight, glare of the rising sun on the windshield that prevents Sam from seeing inside. The vehicle moves molasses-slow, no longer a muscle car but a vintage hearse. It pulls up beside the Impala and crawls to a stop.

Sam moves forward, down the steps, which complain under his weight. He crosses half the distance from the house to the Chevelle before his feet won't carry him any further. He stops at the Impala's front fender, stands stalk-still except for the tremors rattling his hands and feet.

The Chevelle has two doors; big, heavy doors, the kind that put huge dings in the sides of lesser vehicles. They open at the same time and the gravel driveway drops out from under Sam's feet. He can't close the distance between the porch and the Chevelle quick enough.

Dean's hair is longer than it's been in years, colorless and waxy. He's wearing clothes that don't fit, clothes that he never would have picked out for himself. His skin is pale and when Sam wraps his arms around him he's so. Damn. Thin. But underneath the hair and the clothes and the sick-smell it's him. It's really him.

"Hey Sammy," Dean says in a whisper that's husky with tears or exhaustion or lack of oxygen because Sam is squeezing the life out of him.

On the driver's side of the car Bobby gets out slowly, like he's a thousand-year-old corpse rising from the grave. His eyes are red-rimmed and haunted-looking. They find Sam's over the roof of the Impala and Sam's shocked to see that the old man is crying.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he says.

And Sam can't imagine what Bobby has to be sorry about, because Dean's there. He's alive, heart pounding against Sam's chest, strong and steady.

"I couldn't…I-"

"It's okay, Bobby," Sam says, relieved, happy even.

Bobby is shaking his head back and forth, and that's when Sam sees that the old hunter has a pistol leveled at them both.

Sam shoves his brother behind him like Dean weighs nothing at all.

Bobby's voice is strained with grief, "You got ten seconds. Take your brother and go."

"You should listen to the man, Sam."

Sam turns his head, just a quick glance, so he can't be completely sure of what he sees; at least that's what he'll tell himself later. Dean's face is chalk white: a stiff, expressionless mask, and the eyes looking out of that mask are black as sin, black as the hollow barrel of the colt, pointed directly at him.

"Go!" Bobby roars.

Sam backpedals slowly, and Dean backs away with him.

Sam hasn't unlocked the passenger side of the Impala in months. He shoves Dean into the driver's side and scrambles in after him, pushing his brother awkwardly into the passenger seat. Neither of them is buckled up when Sam stabs the key into the ignition, turns the engine over and swings the car into reverse.

The tires spin and then find traction. Gravel sounds like hail from below as it flies up and strikes the undercarriage. Dean flies forward, catching himself with both hands on the dashboard. Sam spins the wheel, flinging his brother into the passenger-side door. He shifts from reverse to drive, and guns it, straight out of the gate, all the while watching the lone, stooped figure in the rearview mirror.

Bobby's standing in his driveway, head bowed, pistol pointed towards the ground, getting smaller and smaller as they leave him behind.

Sam finds the nearest entrance to interstate 90 and doesn't take his foot off the gas until they've crossed the state line. In all that time Dean doesn't say a word, just keeps staring out the window, framed by the blur of grass and trees and road signs. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he's hunched like it hurts to breathe, coat wrapped tight over his shoulders. Sam notices that unlike the jeans and the shirt that Dean is wearing, the coat looks old and worn.

"You can stop," Dean says, somewhere around Luverne.

Sam's been taking visual stock of his brother every minute or so for the last fifty miles.

"Sorry," Sam mutters. "Just want to be sure you're okay." This whole thing is so surreal. He half-expects to wake up on Bobby's porch, still alone, still waiting for the old hunter to bring him his brother's body.

"Not what I meant. You can stop the car."

"Are you tired? Hungry? You want me to find a motel?" Solicitous? No, downright worried, Sam rattles off the questions in rapid-fire fashion.

"Just pull over."

Sam puts the blinker on and does what he's told. Not much of a shoulder along this stretch of highway. The Impala cants to the right when it's fully off of the road, forcing Sam to lean towards the driver's side door to keep from falling on his brother.

Dean lets gravity have its way with him, lets it push him into the space between his seat and the passenger's side door. Sam hates the defeated slump to his body.

They listen to the mid-morning traffic rush by. It's a long time before either of them speaks. Dean seems to be searching for something, his green eyes (normal, human, Sam assures himself) flicking back and forth like there's writing on the dashboard, invisible to everyone but him.

"Bobby's not coming after us," Sam says.

Dean comes back with, "He was going to kill me."

Sam's stomach clenches as he remembers his last conversation with Bobby, a call that the old hunter made from a payphone. "I know."

"Did he tell you why?"

"Yes."

"He couldn't do it."

"I'm glad," Sam says, and lets it show in his voice.

"It would have been the right thing to do."

"Dean, you can't think that-"

"I made a deal with him," Dean interrupts.

"With Bobby," Sam repeats.

"We keep our noses clean, he keeps the other hunters off of our trail…when he can. He finds out I couldn't keep up my end of the bargain, he's going to finish what he started."

Sam nods. He's not as surprised as he should be. "We'll make it work. We'll go on like we always have: Saving people, hunting things."

"I don't think it's going to be that easy," Dean says quietly.

Dean won't turn to look at him. Sam swallows. "I can show you how…"

Dean does look at him now, and his eyes widen slowly, shocked white showing all around the irises. The passenger side window is dark enough that Sam can see his own eyes looking back at him, golden-yellow, almost glowing in the dim cab of the Impala.

Sam blinks and his eyes return to normal. Dean's eyes are still wide in his pale face. Underneath Bobby's jacket his muscles are tense, ready to fight or flee, and Dean doesn't look like he's in any kind of condition for either one.

Sam puts his hands up, like he's soothing a wild animal and not his brother, not Dean, who's always been strong, determined, stubborn.

Sam asks, calmly, "Do you trust me?"

Dean stares at him, body frozen, back against the window. His right hand is wrapped around the door handle. He's been to Hell and back, and there aren't many things on this earth that can scare Dean Winchester.

Sam sighs. He makes his voice low and gentle, reasonable, "Maybe it's too late to save ourselves. That doesn't mean we can't save anyone else. Please trust me."

Slowly, very slowly, Dean relaxes his grip on the door handle.

A few minutes later the Impala pulls back onto the highway, headed east, leaving Bobby, South Dakota and the Black Hills far behind.

There are dark clouds ahead, and the distant rumble of thunder.

_End_

_Thank you for reading. Feedback is welcome._

_Additional thanks to everyone who has reviewed and encouraged me so far. I hope that you are not too mad at me for ending things this way._

_Notes: This story ended darker than I had originally intended. I wanted to send Sam and Dean off into a beautiful sunset or sunrise or something poetic like that, but the idea that I had was that the dark clouds are demonic omens, preceding them wherever they go. The way I picture it, there are still plenty of good days ahead for the boys. If the story had to continue after this, it would be a story of redemption.  
_

_Additional notes: I don't have an excuse for myself. I really don't_.

_I'm sorry._

_So very sorry._

_Loved it? Hated it? Say so, but, uh, in a nice way._


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